Film technique and film acting : the cinema writings of V. I. Pudovkin

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FILM TECHNIQUE and FILM ACTING

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FILM TECHNIQUE

AND

FILM ACTING

The Cinema Writings of
V. I. PUDOVKIN

Translated by IVOR MONTAGU
Introduction by LEWIS JACOBS

VISION

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CONTENTS

PAGE

Contents — Film Technique

(A separate table of contents for FILM
ACTING appears at the beginning of that
volume. )
Introduction by Lewis Jacobs iii

Introduction to the German Edition xiii

I. The Film Scenario and Its Theory

foreword 1

part i. the scenario 3

The meaning of the "shooting-script"— The
construction of the scenario— The theme— The
action- treatment of the theme— Conclusion.

PART II. THE PLASTIC MATERIAL 26

The simplest specific methods of shooting-
Method of treatment of the material: struc-
tural editing— Editing of the scene— Editing
of the sequence— Editing of the Scenario-
Editing as an instrument of impression: rela-
tional editing.

II. Film Director and Film Material

part i. the peculiarities of film

material 51

The film and the theatre— The methods of the
film— Film and reality— Filmic space and time
—The material of films— Analysis— Editing:
the logic of filmic analysis— The necessity to
interfere with movement— Organisation of the
material to be shot— Arranging setups— The
organisation of chance material— Filmic form
—The technique of directorial work.

PART H. THE DIRECTOR AND THE SCENARIO 93

The director and the scenarist— The environ-
ment of the film— The characters in the envir-

PAGE

onment— The establishment of the rhythm of
the film.

PART III. THE DIRECTOR AND THE ACTOR 105
Two kinds of production— The film actor and
the film type— Planning the acting of the film
type— The ensemble— Expressive movement-
Expressive objects— The director as creator
of the ensemble.

PART IV. THE ACTOR IN THE FRAME 118

The actor and the filmic image— The actor
and light.

PART V. THE DIRECTOR AND THE CAMERA-
MAN 120
The cameraman and the camera— The camera
and its viewpoint— The shooting of movement
—The camera compels the spectator to see as
the director wishes— The shaping of the com-
position—The laboratory— Collectivism : the
basis of film-work.

III. Types Instead of Actors 137

IV. Close-ups in Time 146
v. asynchronism as a principle of sound

Film 155

VI. Rhythmic Problems in My First Sound

Film 166

VII. Notes and Appendices

A. GLOSSARIAL NOTES 175

B. — SPECIAL NOTES 180

C. ICONOGRAPHY OF PUDOVKIN's WORKS 192

D. — INDEX OF NAMES 196
The numerals in the text refer to Appendix B.

INTRODUCTION

There are few experiences more important in
the education of a newcomer to motion pic-
tures than the discovery of V. I. Pudovkin's
Film Technique and Film Acting. No more valuable
manuals of the practice and theory of film making have
been written than these two handbooks by the notable
Soviet director. So sound are their points of view, so
valid their tenets, so revelatory their analyses, that they
remain today, twenty years after their initial appear-
ance, the foremost books of their kind.

First published abroad in 1929 and 1933 respectively,
Film Technique and Film Acting brought to the art of
film making a code of principles and a rationale that
marked the medium's analytic "coming of age." Until
their publication, the motion picture maker had to eke
out on his own any intellectual or artistic considera-
tions of film craft. No explicit body of principles existed
upon which the film maker could draw with confidence.
Film technique was a more or less hit or miss affair
that existed in a kind of fragmentary state which, in
the main, leaned heavily upon theatrical methods.

These pioneering books made clear at once that
movie making need no longer flounder for a methodol-
ogy or for its own standards. They elucidated what

iii

iv FILM TECHNIQUE AND FILM ACTING

were the fundamentals of film art and defined the
singular process of expression that distinguished it
from all other media. Now film theory and practice
could be attacked with greater assurance and efficiency.
The film maker now had at his disposal a consolidated
and concrete source of information and knowledge that
could shorten his own creative development. It is not
surprising therefore that these books soon became the
"bibles" for film artists.

Film Technique, in particular, had an acute and im-
mediate effect. It came out at a climactic period in film
history — just when the American cinema was catching
its breath over the exciting innovations and new con-
tributions that had been introduced first by the Ger-
man film importations, then the French and finally the
Russian. The originality of these foreign pictures had
stirred up a wealth of film theory and criticism which
was valuble and passionate but without a generally ac-
cepted reference point. A criteria on which to con-
struct, judge and evaluate a motion picture was sorely
needed. Film Technique fulfilled this need and was
greeted with hearty applause. Film theory and film
making was lifted out of the gossip and "personal
opinion" category and into a more conscious and de-
fined art form. The concepts contained in this slim
book stimulated and sharpened awareness of what was
basic and true to the film medium. All films and writ-
ings that followed — whether they agreed with its edicts
or not — have had to take cognizance of its principles
and contributions. Film makers and critics to the pres-

INTRODUCTION v

ent continue to borrow from its rich deposit of ideas,
implications and conclusions.

Film Acting, which appeared shortly after the intro-
duction of sound, never had the same deep influence
or stirred up the same amount of excitement. This is
probably because the problem of film acting was basic-
ally another aspect, an extension of the problem of act-
ing in general — an art which already had a great body
of tradition and analysis in print, while film technique
although utilizing many of the other, older crafts, was
nevertheless a new and distinct medium of expression
about which very little was known and which had ac-
quired only the beginnings of a tradition.

No more authoritative and knowing person could
have been chosen to write these books than V. I. Pu-
dovkin, acknowledged internationally as one of the
greatest of film directors. His early pictures — Mother,
The End of St. Petersburg, Storm Over Asia — along
with those of other Soviet directors, burst upon the
American scene between the years of 1927-1930, pro-
voking tremendous excitement, controversy and ad-
miration. Intellectuals, artists and film makers argued
hotly about the merits of what they were forced by
these films to concede to be an art. Cries of "propa-
ganda" were mingled with cheers for the pictures' dy-
namic forcefulness, high imagination and profound
cinematic skill. When all the excitement had simmered
down, it was agreed that the films of Pudovkin and his
countrymen had ushered in a new era in screen artistry.

The End of St Petersburg (1927) and Storm Over

A*

vi FILM TECHNIQUE AND FILM ACTING

Asia (1928), were the two pictures which made Pu-
dovkin's reputation in the United States. Mother was
not shown in this country until years later, and then
only to limited audiences. The End of St. Petersburg
was so popular that it had the distinction of being the
first Soviet film to appear in Broadway's largest movie
theatre, the Roxy. It played there for a number of
weeks after an initial two-a-day run at Hammerstein's
legitimate theatre — an uncommon event for that day.

The End of St. Petersburg dramatized through the
eyes of a peasant the social upheaval in St. Petersburg,
with a sweep and richness of detail comparable to the
best efforts of Griffith and Eisenstein. Its warm human
feeling for character, its atmosphere of the Russian
countryside, its innumerable satirical touches and its
portrait of a bewildered peasant who finally emerges
from perplexity to an understanding of his country's
upset, were rendered in a quick, staccato style that
emphasized the intensity of the period and carried the
spectator away by the sheer force and dynamic quality
of its filmic construction.

Some of the film's sequences were considered so
extraordinary cinematically that they have since be-
come celebrated in film history. In the stock exchange
sequence for instance, Pudovkin portrayed in extreme
close shots the hysteria of the Czarist war profiteers,
then cross cut these images to another kind of hysteria
— soldiers in battle being mowed down by bursting
shells, freezing in dug-outs, killing and being killed.
He forced the spectator to draw his own conclusions

INTRODUCTION vii

from the cross cutting of the pictures. Such a use of
editing was typical of the film throughout. The theory
that was the basis for this method can be found in his
manual.

Storm Over Asia had many things in common with
this film. Its protagonist, as the hero in The End of St.
Petersburg, was also a bewildered peasant, who in the
social upheaval becomes awakened and leads his fel-
low men against their oppressors. Structurally simpler
than its predecessor, it also revealed a cinematic style
of dexterity and originality. The film was permeated
with the same deep regard for the precise image, the
exact pace, the significant psychological angle, and dis-
played an equally profound use of editing.

The closing sequence of the picture illustrates force-
fully what Pudovkin called, "implanting an abstract
concept into the consciousness of the spectator,"
through cinematic symbolism. The Mongol hero (mis-
taken heir of Genghis Khan) who has fiercely fought
his way out of his enemy's headquarters, is pursued by
them as he rides across the desert. A windstorm begins.
The Mongol raises his ancient sword and cries out,
"O My People!" Suddenly as if in answer to his cry,
the desert begins to fill with hundreds, then thousands
of mounted Mongols. Again he calls: "Rise in your
ancient strength!" The screen fills with tens of thou-
sands of his tribesmen, riding furiously as though to
battle behind their leader. Once more the Mongol calls
out: " — And free yourselves!" Now the mounted war-
riors blend with the fury of the storm and sweep every-

viii FILM TECHNIQUE AND FILM ACTING

thing before them — their enemy, their enemy's trading
posts, trees — in a tempestuous hurricane symbolical of
their united strength and the imminent storm over Asia.

These important and masterful motion pictures had
been made by Pudovkin while in his early thirties. Yet
he had never thought of making motion pictures his
career until he was twenty-seven. Up to that time his
vocational interest had been chemistry. He was about
to graduate from the Moscow University with a degree
in physics and chemistry when the first world war
broke out. Enlisting in the artillery, he was wounded
and taken prisoner. The years 1915-1918 were spent in
a Pomeranian prison camp; 1919 saw him back in Mos-
cow installed once more in a chemist's laboratory.

But the post-war restlessness seized him. He became
so interested in the theatre that he decided to forsake
his previous profession and passed the examination
which admitted him to work in one of Moscow's
theatre workshop groups. Then he saw D. W. Griffith's
film Intolerance. This work made such a deep impres-
sion upon him that there was no longer any doubt for
him as to where his path lay. "After seeing it ( Intoler-
ance), I was convinced that cinematography was really
an art and an art of great potentialities. It fascinated
me and I was eager to go into this new field."

He applied at once to the State Film School and was
accepted. Here during the next two years he served an
apprenticeship acting, designing sets, improvising
scenes and learning the business aspects of movie mak-
ing. After this he went on to the film workshop of

INTRODUCTION ix

Kuleshov, who had the reputation of being the most
stimulating and inspiring teacher in his country — a
reputation not unlike that of Professor Baker in this
country who made his theatre workshop at Harvard so
famous. Under Kuleshov, Pudovkin discovered the
medium's true nature and its creative resources. Pudov-
kin learned that in every art there is a material and a
mode of organizing that material in terms of the me-
dium. Through experiment and practice he discovered
what Melies, Porter and Griffith had instinctively fallen
upon many years earlier: that the basic means of ex-
pression which is unique to motion pictures lies in the
organization of the film strips — the shots — which in
themselves contain the elements of the larger forms —
the scenes and sequences — and which in relationship
motivate the film's structural unity and effectiveness.

Toward the end of 1925, he directed his first feature-
length picture: Mechanics of the Brain. During a lull
in its production he collaborated with Nikolai Shipkov-
sky in the direction of a comedy based on the Interna-
tional Chess Tournament then being held in Moscow:
Chess Fever. This picture brought him critical atten-
tion and the admiration of other film makers. It also
won for him the opportunity to direct a much more
ambitious undertaking, Mother, based on the novel by
Maxim Gorky, which was destined to bring him inter-
national acclaim and place him in the front row of
directorial talents. The film itself was hailed as a "mas-
terpiece" and ranks as one of the classics in film history.
It is considered by many to be his greatest work.

x FILM TECHNIQUE AND FILM ACTING

It was during the production of Mother that Pudov-
kin wrote the first of these two books as part of a series
of manuals on film making for use in the State Cinema
Institute. The first manual, originally containing 64
pages, was called The Film Scenario; the second, 92
pages long, was called The Film Director and Film
Material. So large was their circulation in Russia that
they were translated and published abroad in a single
handbook entitled Film Technique.

Pudovkin later amplified many of the ideas in this
manual in a lecture at the Cinema Institute. At the
suggestion of the State Academy of Art Research, he
expanded this lecture into a third book which subse-
quently was called Film Acting. Both books, Film
Technique and Film Acting, became standard inter-
national reading almost immediately, accepted and
proselytized far beyond their author's expectations.

Early in his career, Pudovkin discovered that the
human eye does not see things in a mechanical way.
That is, the eye seldom focuses on anything from the
point of view squarely in front of it except by the
merest chance. Instead it is more natural for the eye
to perceive things at some angle — either from below,
above or from the side. Also, the eye does not focus on
an object for a long period of time, but constantly shifts
around in a succession of swift impressions. With the
aid of the brain these impressions are instantly regis-
tered as texture, light and shade, size, weight, etc.

This knowledge aided Pudovkin's formation of film
theory. His writing is larded with pertinent observa-

INTRODUCTION xi

tions of the behavior of the eye and mind. He points
out that the principles of film technique have much in
common with the principles of the eye and the brain.
That is, the eye does not simply act as a mechanical
recorder, but is an instrument (not unlike the lens of
the camera) whose impressions are linked to and quali-
fied by the brain. For what the eye sees the brain
appraises, computes and arranges in an organized sum-
mation or concept. This activity of selection and re-
arrangement for the purpose of implanting an idea or
emotion or concept is the secret of film construction.
Many vivid examples from Pudovkin's own and other
films make the application of his method and the work-
ing cause and effect enlightening, practical and stim-
ulating.

At all times it is the practitioner talking, not the critic
or theorist. Pudovkin grapples with the specifics of
craft problems that confront every film maker and the
principles he formulates flow from much study and
practice in the laboratory and studio. At first glance,
Pudovkin's approach may seem to some, unfeeling,
doctrinaire or even mechanical. Yet his films prove that
when construction and action are understood in terms
of the screen medium, the results are as human and as
full of feeling as the director can make them.

Film Technique and Film Acting can in no way be
considered in the category of manuals which teach
movie making in twelve easy lessons. Nor are they in-
tended for the amateur film hobbyist — although a
knowledge of the contents of Pudovkin's books can

xii FILM TECHNIQUE AND FILM ACTING

greatly improve his work. They can provide such
hobbyists with an insight into the medium such as they
never dreamed of and thus enable them to enhance
their own pleasure by raising them from dabblers to
creative craftsmen.

There is so much that is touched upon in these books
that is of grave significance, that they merit continuous
reading and study. Other writing on film art may go
into the subject at greater length, examine more thor-
oughly more aspects, include wider discussions of more
technical problems more recently arisen, but no book
speaks with greater authority, nor has captured with
greater simplicity and comprehensiveness the basic is-
sues of film structure. Because of its laconic treatment
and compactness, important details are sometimes
missed or oversimplified. It is important to note for
example that Pudovkin says, the foundation of film art
is editing. He does not say, as many of his readers have
said later, that the art of film is editing. Together, Film
Technique and Film Acting constitute an anatomy of
film art. Their reappearance in an American edition
after many years of being out of print is an augury
that holds much promise for the future.

Lewis Jacobs

INTRODUCTION TO THE
GERMAN EDITION

THE foundation of film art is editing. Armed
with this watchword, the young cinema of
Soviet Russia commenced its progress, and it
is a maxim that, to this day, has lost nothing of its
significance and force.

It must be borne in mind that the expression
" editing " is not always completely interpreted
or understood in its essence. By some the term is
naively assumed to imply only a joining together of
the strips of film in their proper time-succession.
Others, again, know only two sorts of editing, a fast
and a slow. But they forget — or they have never
learnt — that rhythm (i.e., the effects controlled by
the alternation in cutting of longer or shorter strips
of film) by no means exhausts all the possibilities of
editing.

To make clear my point and to bring home
unmistakably to my readers the meaning of editing
and its full potentialities, I shall use the analogy
of another art-form — literature. To the poet or
writer separate words are as raw material. They
have the widest and most variable meanings which
only begin to become precise through their position
in the sentence. To that extent to which the word
is an integral part of the composed phrase, to that
extent is its effect and meaning variable until

xiv PUDOVKIN

it is fixed in position, in the arranged artistic
form.

To the film director each shot of the finished film
subserves the same purpose as the word to the poet.
Hesitating, selecting, rejecting, and taking up again,
he stands before the separate takes, and only by
conscious artistic composition at this stage are gradu-
ally pieced together the " phrases of editing," the
incidents and sequences, from which emerges, step
by step, the finished creation, the film.

The expression that the film is " shot " is entirely
false, and should disappear from the language. The
film is not shot, but built, built up from the separate
strips of celluloid that are its raw material. If a writer
requires a word — for example, beech — the single word
is only the raw skeleton of a meaning, so to speak,
a concept without essence or precision. Only in
conjunction with other words, set in the frame of a
complex form, does art endow it with life and reality.
I open at hazard a book that lies before me and read
" the tender green of a young beech " — not very
remarkable prose, certainly, but an example that
shows fully and clearly the difference between a
single word and a word structure, in which the beech
is not merely a bare suggestion, but has become part
of a definite, literary form. The dead word has been
waked to life through art.

I claim that every object, taken from a given view-
point and shown on the screen to spectators, is a
dead object, even though it has moved before the
camera. The proper movement of an object before

ON FILM TECHNIQUE xv

the camera is yet no movement on the screen, it is no
more than raw material for the future building-up,
by editing, of the movement that is conveyed by the
assemblage of the various strips of film. Only if the
object be placed together among a number of
separate objects, only if it be presented as part of a
synthesis of different separate visual images, is it
endowed with filmic life. Transformed like the
word " beech " in our analogy, it changes itself in
this process from a skeletal photographic copy of
nature into a part of the filmic form.

Every object must, by editing, be brought upon
the screen so that it shall have not photographic, but
cinematographic essence.

One thus perceives that the meaning of editing
and the problems it presents to the director are by
no means exhausted by the logical time-succession
inherent in the shots, or by the arrangement of a
rhythm. Editing is the basic creative force, by power
of which the soulless photographs (the separate shots)
are engineered into living, cinematographic form.
And it is typical that, in the construction of this form,
material may be used that is in reality of an entirely
different character from that in the guise of which it
eventually appears. I shall take an example from
my last film, The End of St. Petersburg.

At the beginning of that part of the action that
represents war, I wished to show a terrific explosion,
In order to render the effect of this explosion with
absolute faithfulness, I caused a great mass of dyna-
mite to be buried in the earth, had it blasted, and

xvi PUDOVKIN

shot it. The explosion was veritably colossal — but
filmically it was nothing. On the screen it was merely
a slow, lifeless movement. Later, after much trial
and experiment, I managed to " edit " the explosion
with all the effect I required — moreover, without
using a single piece of the scene I had just taken.
I took a flammenwerfer that belched forth clouds of
smoke. In order to give the effect of the crash I cut
in short flashes of a magnesium flare, in rhythmic
alternation of light and dark. Into the middle of this
I cut a shot of a river taken some time before, that
seemed to me to be appropriate owing to its special
tones of light and shade. Thus gradually arose
before me the visual effect I required. The bomb
explosion was at last upon the screen, but, in reality,
its elements comprised everything imaginable except
a real explosion.

Once more, reinforced by this example, I repeat
that editing is the creative force of filmic reality, and
that nature provides only the raw material with
which it works. That, precisely, is the relationship
between reality and the film.

These observations apply also in detail to the
actors. The man photographed is only raw material
for the future composition of his image in the film,
arranged in editing.

When faced with the task of presenting a captain
of industry in the film The End of St. Petersburg, I
sought to solve the problem by cutting in his figure
with the equestrian statue of Peter the Great. I
claim that the resultant composition is effective with

ON FILM TECHNIQUE xvii

a reality quite other than that produced by the
posing of an actor, which nearly always smacks
of Theatre.

In my earlier film, Mother, I tried to affect the
spectators, not by the psychological performances of
an actor, but by plastic synthesis through editing.
The son sits in prison. Suddenly, passed in to him
surreptitiously, he receives a note that next day he is
to be set free. The problem was the expression,
filmically, of his joy. The photographing of a face
lighting up with joy would have been flat and void
of effect. I show, therefore, the nervous play of his
hands and a big close-up of the lower half of his face,
the corners of the smile. These shots I cut in with
other and varied material — shots of a brook, swollen
with the rapid flow of spring, of the play of sunlight
broken on the water, birds splashing in the village
pond, and finally a laughing child. By the junction
of these components our expression of " prisoner's
joy " takes shape. I do not know how the spectators
reacted to my experiment — I myself have always
been deeply convinced of its force.

Cinematography advances with rapid stride. Its
possibilities are inexhaustible. But it must not be
forgotten that its path to a real art will be found only
when it has been freed from the dictates of an art-
form foreign to it — that is, the Theatre. Cinemato-
graphy stands now upon the threshold of its own
methods.

The effort to affect from the screen the feelings
and ideas of the public by means of editing is of

xviii PUDOVKIN

crucial importance, for it is an effort that renounces
theatrical method. I am firmly convinced that it is
along this path that the great international art of
cinematography will make its further progress.

(Published in Filmregie und Filmmanuskript, translated by Georg
and Nadia Friedland, Lichtbildbuehne, Berlin, 1928, and re-
translated from German by I. M., in The Film Weekly, London,
October 29, 1928.)

I

THE FILM SCENARIO AND ITS THEORY

FOREWORD

THE scenarios usually submitted to production
firms are marked by a specific character.
Almost all represent the primitive narration
of some given content, their authors having appar-
ently concerned themselves only with the relation
of incident, employing for the most part literary
methods, and entirely disregarding the extent to
which the material they propose will be interesting
as subject for cinematographic treatment. The
question of special cinematographic treatment of
material is highly important. Every art possesses its
own peculiar method of effectively presenting its
matter. This remains true, of course, for the film. To
work at a scenario without knowing the methods of
directorial work, the methods of shooting and cutting
a film, is as foolish as to give a Frenchman a Russian
poem in literal translation. In order to communi-
cate to the Frenchman the correct impression, one
must rewrite the poem anew, with knowledge of the
peculiarities of French verse-form. In order to write
a scenario suitable for filming, one must know the
methods by which the spectator can be influenced
from the screen.

The opinion is often met with that the scenarist has

2 PUDOVKIN

only to give a general, primitive outline of the action.
The whole work of detailed " filmic " adaptation is
an affair of the director. This is entirely false. It
should be remembered that in no art can construction
be divided into stages independent of one another.
Already that very general approach involved in the
fact of a work being thought out as a substantial
future presupposes attention to possible particulari-
ties and details. When one thinks of a theme, then
inevitably one thinks simultaneously, be it hazily and
unclearly, of the treatment of its action, and so forth.
From this it follows that, even though the scenarist
abstain from laying down detailed instructions on
what to shoot and how to shoot it, what to edit and
how to edit it, none the less a knowledge and con-
sideration of the possibilities and peculiarities of
directorial work will enable him to propose material
that can be used by the director, and will make pos-
sible to him the creation of a, Jilmically expressive film.
Usually the result is exactly the opposite — usually the
first approach of the scenarist to his work implies in
the best cases uninteresting, in the worst insur-
mountable, obstacles to filmic adaptation.

The purpose of this study is to communicate what
is, it is true, a very elementary knowledge of the
basic principles of scenario work in their relation to
the basic principles of directorial work. Apart from
those considerations specifically filmic, the scenarist,
especially in the field of general construction, is con-
fronted with the laws governing creation in other
allied arts. A scenario may be constructed in the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 3

style of a playwright, and will then be subject to the
laws that determine the construction of a play. In
other cases it may approach the novel, and its con-
struction will consequently be conditioned by other
laws. But these questions can be treated only super-
ficially in the present sketch, and readers especially
interested in them must turn to specialised works.

Part I
THE SCENARIO

THE MEANING OF THE " SHOOTING-SCRIPT "

It is generally known that the finished film con-
sists of a whole series of more or less short pieces
following one another in definite sequence. In
observing the development of the action the spectator
is transferred first to one place, then to another ; yet
more, he is shown an incident, even sometimes an
actor, not as a whole, but consecutively by aiming
the camera at various parts of the scene or of the
human body. This kind of construction of a picture,
the resolving of the material into its elements and
subsequent building from them of a filmic whole, is
called " constructive editing," and it will be discussed
in detail in the second part of this sketch. As a
preliminary it is necessary only for us to note the
fact of this basic method of film- work.

In shooting a film, the director is not in a position
to do so consecutively — that is, begin with the first

4 PUDOVKIN

scene and thence, following the scenario, proceed in
order right up to the last. The reason is simple.
Suppose, for argument's sake, you build a required
set — it nearly always happens that the scenes taking
place in it are spread throughout the whole scenario
— and suppose the director take it into his head,
after shooting a scene on that set, to proceed immedi-
ately with the scene next following in the order of the
action of the developing scenario, then it will be
necessary to build a new set without demolishing
the first, then another, and so forth, accumulating a
whole series of structures without being able to
destroy the preceding ones. To work in this way is
impracticable for simple technical reasons. Thus
both director and actor are deprived of the possi-
bility of continuity in the actual process of shooting ;
but, at the same time, continuity is essential. With
the loss of continuity, we lose the unity of the work —
its style and, with that, its effect. From this derives
the inevitable necessity of a detailed preliminary
overhauling of the scenario. Only then can a
director work with confidence, only then can he
attain significant results, when he treats each piece
carefully according to a filmic plan, when, clearly
visualising to himself a series of screen images, he
traces and fixes the whole course of development,
both of the scenario action and of the work of the
separate characters. In this preliminary paper-work
must be created that style, that unity, which con-
ditions the value of any work of art. All the various
positions of the camera — such as long-shot, close-up,

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 5

shot from above, and so forth ; all the technical
means — such as " fade," " mask," and " pan " —
that affect the relation of a shot to the piece of cellu-
loid preceding and following it ; everything that
comprises or strengthens the inner content of a scene,
must be exactly considered ; otherwise in the shoot-
ing of some scene, taken at random from the middle
of the scenario, irreparable errors may arise. Thus
this overhauled " working " — that is, ready for shoot-
ing— form of scenario provides in itself the detailed
description of each, eveta the smallest, piece, citing
every technical method required for its execution.

Certainly, to require the scenarist to write his work
in such a form would be to require him to become a
director ; but all this scenario work must be done,
and, if he cannot deliver a " cast-iron " scenario,
ready for shooting, nevertheless, in that degree in
which he provides a material more or less approach-
ing the ideal form, the scenarist will provide the
director not with a series of obstacles to be overcome,
but with a series of impulses that can be used. The
more technically complete his working-out of the
scenario, the more chance the scenarist has to see
upon the screen the images shaped as he has
visualised them.

THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE SCENARIO

If we try to divide the work of the scenarist into,
as it were, a succession of stages, passing from the
general to the particular, we get the following rough
scheme :

6 PUDOVKIN

i . The theme.

2. The action (the treatment).*

3. The cinematographic working-out of the action

(filmic representation).

Certainly, such a scheme is the result of the dis-
section of an already completed scenario. As already
remarked, the creative process can take place in
other sequence. Separate scenes can be imagined
and simultaneously find their position in the process
of growth. But, none the less, some final overhaul of
the work on the scenario must take into account
all these three stages in their sequence. One must
always remember that the film, by the very nature of
its construction (the rapid alternation of successive
pieces of celluloid), requires of the spectator an
exceptional concentration of attention. The director,
and consequently the scenarist also, leads despoti-
cally along with him the attention of the spectator.
The latter sees only that which the director shows
him ; for reflection, for doubt, for criticism, there is
neither room nor time, and consequently the smallest
error in clearness or vividness of construction will be
apprehended as an unpleasant confusion or as a
simple, ineffective blank. Remember, therefore,
that the scenarist must always take care to secure the
greatest simplicity and clarity in the resolution of
each separate problem, at whatever moment in his
work it may confront him. For convenience in

* I combine these two as one for the purposes of a short sketch,
but this is not technically exact. (Author's note.)

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 7

elucidation we will discuss separately in order each
of the separate points of the scheme outlined, that
we may establish the specific requirements set by
the film in the selection and application of dif-
ferent materials and the different methods of their
treatment.

THE THEME

The theme is a supra-artistic concept. In fine,
every human concept can be employed as a theme,
and the film, no more than any other art, can place
bounds to its selection. The only question that can
be asked is whether it be valuable or useless to the
spectator. And this question is a purely sociological
one, the solution of which does not enter the scope of
this sketch. But mention must be made of certain
formal requirements, conditioning the selection of
the theme, if only because of the present-day position
of film-art. The film is yet young, and the wealth of
its methods is not yet extensive ; for this reason it is
possible to indicate temporary limitations without
necessarily attributing to them the permanence and
inflexibility of laws. First of all must be mentioned
the scale of theme. Formerly there ruled a tendency,
and in part it exists to-day, to select such themes as
embrace material spreading extraordinarily widely
over time and space. As example may be quoted the
American film Intolerance, the theme of which may be
represented as follows : " Throughout all ages and
among all peoples, from the earliest times to the
present day, stalks intolerance, dragging in its wake

8 PUDOVKIN

murder and blood." This is a theme of monstrous
extent ; the very fact that it spreads " throughout
all ages and among all peoples " already conditions
an extraordinary breadth of material. The result
is extremely characteristic. In the first place,
scarcely compressed into twelve reels, the film
became so ponderous that the tiredness it created
largely effaced its effect. In the second place, the
abundance of matter forced the director to work the
theme out quite generally, without touching upon
details, and consequently there was a strong dis-
crepancy between the depth of the motif and the
superficiality of its form. Only the part played in
the present day, in which the action was more con-
centrated, produced the necessary, effective impres-
sion. It is especially necessary to pay attention to
this forced superficiality. At the present moment
film-art, still in its infancy, does not possess means
enabling it to embrace so wide a material.

Note that most good films are characterised by very
simple themes and relatively uncomplicated action.
Bela Balazs, in his book " Der Sichtbare Mensch,"
quite correctly remarks that the failure of the
majority of film adaptations of literary works is to
be ascribed mainly to the fact that the scenarists
concerned strove to compress a superabundance of
material into the narrow confines of the picture.

Cinematography is, before anything else, limited
by the definite length of a film. A film more than
7,000 feet long already creates an unnecessary
exhaustion. There is, it is true, a method of issuing

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 9

a long film in several so-called serial parts. But this
method is possible only to films of a special kind.
Adventure-films, their content consisting chiefly of
a series of extraordinary happenings in the career
of the hero, little connected with one another after
all, and always having each an independent inter-
est (stunts — either acrobatic or directorial), can
naturally be shown to the spectator in several
episodes of a single/ cycle. The spectator, losing
nothing in impression, can see the second part
without acquaintance with the first, the content of
which he gathers from an opening title. The
relationship between the episodes is attained by
crude play upon the curiosity of the spectator ; for
example, at the end of the first part the hero lands
into some inextricable situation, solved only at the
beginning of the second, and so forth. But the film
of deeper content, the value of which lies always in
the impression it creates as a whole, can certainly not
be thus divided into parts for the spectator to see
separately, one each week.1 The influence of this
limitation of film length is yet increased by the fact
that the film technician, for the effective represen-
tation of a concept, requires considerably more
material than, let us say, the novelist or playwright.
In a single word often a whole complex of images is
contained. Visual images having an inferential
significance of this nature are, however, very rare,
and the film technician is therefore forced to carry
out a detailed representation if he desire to achieve
an effective impression. I repeat that the necessity

io PUDOVKIN

to limit the scale of the theme is perhaps only a tem-
porary one, but, having regard to our actual store of
means of filmic representation, it is unavoidable.

Meanwhile, the other requirement, conditioned by
the basic character itself of filmic spectacle, will
probably exist for ever — the necessity for clarity. I
have already mentioned above the necessity for
absolute clarity in the resolution of every problem
met with in the process of working on the film ; this
holds true, of course, for the work on the theme. If
the basic idea that is to serve as backbone to the
scenario be vague and indefinite, the scenario is con-
demned to miscarry.2 True that in the examination
of the written representation, it is possible, by careful
study, to disentangle one's way among the hints and
unclarities, but, transposed upon the screen, such a
scenario becomes irritatingly confusing.

I give an example ; a scenario-writer sent us an
already completed scenario on the life of a factory
workman in the days before the Russian revolution.
The scenario was written round a given hero, a work-
man. In the course of the action he came into contact
with a series of persons — hostile and friendly : the
enemies harmed him, the friends helped him. At the
beginning of the scenario the hero was depicted as a
rough, ungoverned man ; at the end he became an
honest, class-conscious workman. The scenario was
written in well-drawn, naturalistic environmental
colours, it undoubtedly contained interesting, live
material witnessing to the powers of observation and
the knowledge of its author, yet none the less it was

ON FILM TECHNIQUE u

turned down. A series of slices of life, a series of
chance meetings and encounters bound together by
no more than their sequence in time, is, after all, no
more than a group of episodes. The theme as basic
idea, uniting in itself the meaning of all the events
depicted — that is what was lacking. Consequently
the separate characters were without significance,
the actions of the he/ro and the people round him
as chaotic and adventitious as the movements
of pedestrians on a street, passing by before a
window.

But the same author went through his scenario,
altering it in accordance with the remarks made to
him. He carefully reconstructed the line of the hero,
guided by a clearly formulated theme. As basis he
set the following idea : " It is not sufficient to be
revolutionarily inclined ; to be of service to the cause
one must possess a properly organised consciousness
of reality." The merely blustering workman of the
opening was changed to a reckless anarchist,3 his
enemies thus stood in a clear and definite front, his
contacts with them and with his future friends
assumed clear purpose and clear meaning, a whole
series of superfluous complications fell away, and the
modified scenario was transformed to a rounded and
convincing whole. The idea defined above can be
termed that theme the clear formulation of which
inevitably organises the entire work and results in a
clearly effective creation. Note as rule : formulate
the theme clearly and exactly — otherwise the work
will not acquire that essential meaning and unity

12 PUDOVKIN

that conditions every work of art. All further limi-
tations influencing the choice of theme are connected
with the action-treatment. As I have already said,
the creative process never takes place in schematic
sequence : thinking of the theme involves, nearly
simultaneously, thinking of the action and its
treatment.

THE ACTION-TREATMENT OF THE THEME

The scenarist, in the very first stages of his work,
already possesses a given material later to be dis-
posed in the framework of his future creation. This
material is provided for him by knowledge, experi-
ence, and, finally, imagination. Having established
the theme, as basic idea conditioning the selection
of this material, the scenarist must begin its grouping.
Here the persons of the action are introduced, their
relations to one another established, their various
significance in the development of the plot deter-
mined, and, finally, here are indicated, given
proportions for the distribution of the entire material
throughout the scenario.

In entering the province of the action-treatment of
the theme, the scenarist first comes into contact with
the requirements of creative work. Just as the theme
is, by definition, a supra-artistic element, so, con-
trastingly, the work on the action is conditioned
by a whole series of requirements peculiar to the
given art.

Let us first approach the most general aspect — let
us determine the character of the work on the action.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 13

A writer, when he plans out a future work, establishes
always a series of, as it were, key-stones, significant
to the elucidation of the theme and spread over the
whole of the work in preparation. These key-stones,
as it were, mark the general outline ; to them belong
the elements characteristic of the various persons, the
nature of the events that bring these persons together,
often the details conditioning the significance and
strength of the elements of crescendo and diminu-
endo, often even just separate incidents selected for
their power and expressiveness.

Exactly the same process occurs certainly in the
work of the scenarist. To consider the action ab-
stractly is impossible. It is impossible to plan merely
that at the beginning the hero is an anarchist and
then, after meeting with a series of mishaps in his
efforts at revolutionary work, becomes a conscious
communist. A scheme of this kind is no advance on
the theme and brings us no nearer the essential
treatment. Not only what happens must be per-
ceived, but also how it happens ; in the work on the
action the form must already be sensible. Imagining
a reform in the cosmic philosophy of the hero is still
very far from creating a climax in the scenario.
Before the discovery of a definite concrete form that,
in the scenarist's opinion, will affect the spectator
from the screen, the abstract idea of a reform has no
creative value and cannot serve as a key-stone in the
constitution of the action ; but these key-stones are
necessary ; they establish the hard skeleton and
remove the danger of those blank gaps that may

i4 PUDOVKIN

always occur if some important stage in the develop-
ment of the scenario be treated carelessly and
abstractly. Neglect of this element in the work of
final filmic polishing may occasion inexpressive
material, unsuitable for plastic treatment, and thus
may destroy the whole construction.

The novelist expresses his key-stones in written
descriptions, the dramatist by rough dialogue, but
the scenarist must think in plastic (externally expres-
sive) images. He must train his imagination, he must
develop the habit of representing to himself whatever
comes into his head in the form of a sequence of
images upon the screen. Yet more, he must learn
to command these images and to select from those he
visualises the clearest and most vivid ; he must know
how to command them as the writer commands his
words and the playwright his spoken phrases.4

The clarity and vividness of the action-treatment
directly depends on the clear formulation of the
theme. Let us take as an example an American film,
naive, certainly, and not especially valuable, issued
under the name Saturday Night. Though its content
is slight, it affords an excellent model of a theme
clearly outlined and action simply and vividly
treated. The theme is as follows : " Persons of
different social class will never be happy when inter-
married." The construction of the action runs so.
A chauffeur spurns the favours of a laundress, for he
falls in love with a capitalist's daughter whom he
drives every day in his car. The son of another
capitalist, chancing to see the young laundress in his

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 15

house, falls in love with her. Two marriages are
celebrated. The narrow garret of the chauffeur
seems an absurd dog-kennel to the daughter of the
mansion. The natural desire of the chauffeur to find
a meal at home ready for him after a hard day's work
encounters an invincible obstacle in the fact that his
wife has no idea how to make a fire or manage the
cooking utensils ; the fire is too hot, the crockery
dirties her hands, and the half-cooked food flies all
over the floor. When friends of the chauffeur visit
him to spend a jolly evening, they behave themselves
so crudely, by the standards of the spoilt lady, that
she stalks demonstratively out of the room and
bursts into an unexpected fit of hysterics.

Meanwhile, no better fares the ex-laundress in the
mansion of the rich. Surrounded by scornful
servants, she plumps from one embarrassment into
another. She marvels at the lady's-maids who help
her to dress and undress, she looks clumsy and absurd
in her long-trained gown, at a dinner-party she
becomes an object of ridicule, to the distress of her
husband and his relatives. By chance the chauffeur
and the former laundress meet. It is obvious that,
influenced by disappointment, their former mutual
inclination re-awakens. The two unhappy couples
part, to reunite themselves in new and happier com-
binations. The laundress is brilliant in the kitchen,
and the capitalist's new wife wears her dresses
faultlessly and is marvellous at the fox-trot.

The action is as primitive as the theme, but none
the less the film can be regarded as highly successful

16 PUDOVKIN

in its clear, well-thought out construction. Every
detail is in place and directly related to the pervading
idea. Even in this superficial sketch of its content
one senses the presence of vivid, externally expressed
images : the kitchen, the chauffeur's friends, the
elegant clothes, the guests at dinner, and, again, the
kitchen and the clothes in another form. Every
essential element in the development of the scenario
is characterised by clear, plastic material.

As counter-model I shall reproduce an extract
from one of the many scenarios that pour in every
day : " The Nikonov family is reduced to direst
poverty, neither the father nor Natasha can find work
— refusals everywhere. Often Andrei visits them, and
seeks with fervent words to encourage the despairing
Natasha. At last, in despair, the father goes to the
contractor and offers to make peace with him, and
the contractor agrees on condition that he shall
receive the daughter in marriage, and so forth/55 This
is a typical example of filmic colourlessness and
helplessness in representation. There is nothing but
meetings and talkings. Such expressions as " Often
Andrei visits them," " with fervent words he seeks
to encourage M " refusals everywhere" and so forth,
show a complete lack of any connection between the
work on the action and that filmic form the scenario
is later to assume. Such incidents may serve, at
best, as material for titles, but never for shots. For
the word " often " means, in any case, several times,
and to show Andrei making his visit four or five times
would seem absurd even to the author of this

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 17

scenario ; the same applies to the expression
" refusals everywhere. "

What is said here is not being pedantic about a
word. It is important to realise that even in the pre-
paratory general treatment of the scenario must be
indicated nothing that is impossible to represent,
or that is inessential, but only that which can be
established as clear and plastically expressive key-
stones. To express externally the character of a
scene showing direst poverty, to find acts (not words)
characterising the relationship of Andrei to Natasha
—this is what will provide such key-stones. It may
be argued that work on plastic form belongs already
to the next stage and can be left to the director, but
to this I emphasise once again that it is always im-
portant to have the possible plastic form before one's
eyes even in the general approach to the work, in
order to escape the possibility of blank gaps in the
subsequent treatment. Remember, for example, the
word " often," already mentioned as one entirely
unnecessary and incapable of plastic expression.

Thus we have established the necessity for the
scenarist always to orientate himself according to the
plastic material that, in the end, must serve as form
for his representation. We now turn to the general
questions of concentration of the action as a whole.
There is a whole series of standards that regulate the
construction of a narrative, of a novel, of a play*
They stand all, undoubtedly, in close relation to
scenario work, but their transcription cannot be
compressed into the narrow limits of this sketch,5

1 8 PUDOVKIN

Of the questions of general construction of the
scenario, mention must be made here only of one.
During work on the treatment the scenarist must
always consider the varying degree of tension in the
action. This tension must, after all, be reflected in
the spectator, forcing him to follow the given part of
the picture with more or less excitement. This
excitement does not depend from the dramatic
situation alone, it can be created or strengthened by
purely extraneous methods.6 The gradual winding-
up of the dynamic elements of the action, the intro-
duction of scenes built from rapid, energetic work of
the characters, the introduction of crowd scenes, all
these govern increases of excitement in the spectator,
and one must learn so to construct the scenario that
the spectator is gradually engrossed by the developing
action, receiving the most effective impulse only at
the end. The vast majority of scenarios suffer from
clumsy building up of tension. As example one
may quote the Russian film The Adventures of Mr.
West. The first three reels are watched with ever-
growing interest. A cowboy, arrived in Moscow
with the American visitor West, lands into and
escapes from a series of exceedingly complicated
situations, the interest steadily increasing with his
dexterity. The dynamically saturated earlier reels
are easy to look at and grip the spectator with ever-
increasing excitement. But after the end of the third
reel, where the cowboy's adventures came to an
unexpected end, the spectator experiences a natural
reaction, and the continuation, in spite of the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 19

excellent directorial treatment, is watched with much
diminished interest. And the last reel, containing
the weakest material of the whole (a journey through
the streets of Moscow and various empty factories),
completely effaces the good impression of the film
and lets the spectator go out unsatisfied.

As an interesting example of opposite and correct
regulation of increasing elements of tension in the
action may be instanced the films of the well-known
American director, Griffith. He has created a type
of film-ending, even distinguished by his name, that
is used by the multitude of his successors up to the
present day. Let us take the present-day part of the
film Intolerance, already instanced. A young work-
man, discharged owing to participation in a strike,
comes to New York, and falls in straightway with a
band of petty thieves ; but, after meeting the girl he
loves, he decides to seek honest employment. Yet the
" villains " do not leave him in peace. Finally they
involve him in a trial for murder and he gets into
prison. The proofs seem so incontestable to the judge
and jury that he is condemned to death. At the end
of the picture his sweetheart, meanwhile become his
wife, unexpectedly discovers the real murderer.
Her husband is already being prepared for execu-
tion ; only the governor has power to intervene, and
he has just left the town on an express train.

There ensues a terrific chase to save the hero. The
woman rushes after the train on a racing-car whose
owner has realised that a man's life depends upon his
speed. In the cell the man receives unction. The car

20 PUDOVKIN

has almost reached the express. The preparations for
the execution are nearing their end. At the very last
moment, when the noose is being laid round the neck
of the hero, comes the pardon, attained by the wife
at the price of her last energy and effort. The quick
changes of scene, the contrasting alternation of the
tearing machines with the methodical preparations
for the execution of an innocent man, the ever-
increasing concern of the spectator — " will they be in
time, will they be in time ? " — all these compel an
intensification of excitement that, being placed at
the end, successfully concludes the picture. In the
method of Griffith are combined the inner dramatic
content of the action and a masterly employment of
external effort (dynamic tension).

His films can be used as models of correctly con-
trasted intensification. A working out of the /action
of the scenario in which all the lines of behaviour of
the various characters are clearly expressed, in which
all the major events in which the characters take part
are consecutively described, and in which, last but
not least, the tension of the action is correctly con-
sidered and constructed in such a way that its
gradual intensification rises to a climactic end — this,
in fine, is a treatment already of considerable value
and useful to the director in representation. Written
though it may be in purely literary phraseology, such
a treatment will provide the libretto, as it were, of the
scenario ; and, in the hands of the specialist director,
it will be transformable into a working script the
more easily the more that orientation on plastic

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 21

material, of which I spoke above, has been taken into
consideration in working out the action.

Already the next stage in the work of the scenarist
is the specific cinematographic overhaul of the action.
The scenario must be divided into sequences, these
into scenes, and the scenes into the separate shots
(script-scenes) 7 that correspond to the separate pieces
of celluloid from which the film is ultimately joined
together. A reel must not exceed a certain length —
its average length works out at from 900 to 1,200 feet.
The film consists usually of from six to eight reels, and
the scenario-writer desirous of endowing his work
with specific filmic treatment must learn to feel its
length. In order correctly to feel it he should take
into consideration the following facts. The projector
at normal speed runs through about one foot per
second. Consequently a reel runs through in under
fifteen minutes, and the whole film in about an hour
and a half. If one try to visualise each separate scene
as a component of a reel, as it appears upon the
screen, and consider the time each will take up, one
can reckon the quantity required as content of the
whole scenario.8

A scenario worked out to the elementary and
preliminary extent of division into a series of reels,
sequences, and separate scenes looks as follows 9 :

REEL ONE

Scene 1 . — A peasant waggon, sinking in the mud,
slowly trails along a country road. Sadly and
reluctantly the hooded driver urges on his tired

22 PUDOVKIN

horse. A figure cowers into the corner of the
waggon, trying to wrap itself in an old soldier's
cloak for protection against the penetrating wind.
A passer-by, coming towards the waggon, pauses,
standing inquisitively. The driver turns to him.

Title :

" Is it far to Nakhabin ? "

The pedestrian answers, pointing with his
hand. The waggon sets onward, while the passer-
by stares after it and then continues on his way.

Scene 2. — A peasant hut. In the corner on a
bench, lies an old man covered with rags ; he
breathes with difficulty. An old woman is busy-
ing herself about the hearth and irritably clattering
among the pots. The sick man turns himself
round painfully and speaks to her.

Title :

" // sounds as if some one were knocking''

The old woman goes to the window and looks
out.

Title :
" Imagination, Mironitch ; the door rattles in the wind"

A scenario written in this way, already divided into
separate scenes and with titles, forms the first phase
of filmic overhaul. But it is still far from the working-
script, referred to above, already fully prepared for

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 23

immediate shooting. Note that there is a whole series
of details characteristic for the given scene and em-
phasised by their literary form, such as, for example,
" sinking in the mud," " sadly the driver,5' " a
passenger, wrapped in a soldier's cloak," " the pierc-
ing wind " — none of these details will reach the
spectator if they are introduced merely as incidentals
in shooting the scene as a whole, just as it is written.
The film possesses essentially specific and highly
effective methods by means of which the spectator
can be made to notice each separate detail (mud,
wind, behaviour of driver, behaviour of fare), show-
ing them one by one, just as we should describe them
in separate sequence in literary work, and not just
simply to note " bad weather," " two men on a wag-
gon." This method is called constructive editing.10
Something of the kind is used by certain scenario-
writers in interpolating into their description of a scene
a so-called "close-up" — thus, "a village street on a
church holiday. An animated group of peasants.
In the centre speaks a Comsomolka ll (close-up).
New groups come up. The elders of the village.
Indignant cries are heard from them."

Such " interpolated close-ups " had better be
omitted — they have nothing to do with constructive
editing. Terms such as " interpolation " and " cut-
in " are absurd expressions, the remnants of an old
misunderstanding of the technical methods of the
film. The details organically belonging to scenes of
the kind instanced must not be interpolated into the
scene, but the latter must be built out of them. We

24 PUDOVKIN

will turn to editing, as the basic method of influencing
the spectator effectively from the screen, when we
have given the necessary explanations of the basic
sorts and selection of plastic material.

CONCLUSION

If the scenarist wish to communicate to the
spectator from the screen the entirety of his concepts,
he must approximate his work as closely as possible
to its final shooting form, that is to say, he must
consider, use, and perhaps even partly discover,
all those specific methods that the director can later
employ. He must watch films attentively, and, after
seeing them, must try to express various sequences,
endeavouring to represent their editing construction.
By such attentive observation of the work of others
can the necessary experience be gained, I will give
an example of an already prepared scenario sequence,
its editing constructed and ready for shooting.

REEL ONE

Title :

The rising of the workers is crushed.

i . Slow fade-in. — The ground strewn with empty
cartridge-cases. Rifles lying about.

2. Slow panorama. — A long barricade passes the
lens, on it lie strewn the corpses of workmen.

3. Part of the barricade. The corpses of work-
men. A woman with her head hanging over back-
wards lies among them. From a broken flagstaff
hangs a torn flag. Mix.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 25

4. Closer, — The woman with her head hanging
back, her eyes staring at the lens. Mix.

5. The torn flag flutters in the wind. Slow
fade-out.

This is an example of a slow, solemn, introductory
sequence. The mixes^re used to emphasise the slow-
ness. The " pan " gives the same effect, and the
fades separate the sequence into a separate indepen-
dent motif.

Now an example of a dynamic sequence in
heightened editing tempo.

1 . From the corner rushes a crowd of workmen.
They run towards the lens ; the figures flee rapidly
past it.

2. A workman leaps over a great crowbar and
runs on. He suddenly stops, and calls :

Title :

" Save the first shop ! "

3. A second workman clambers on to a crane.

4. Steam streams upwards. A frenzied siren
shrieks.

5. The workman on the crane bends over and
looks downwards.

6. The running crowd of workpeople {taken
from above).

7. The workman on the crane calls with all his
strength :

Title (in large letters) :

" SAVE THE FIRST SHOP ! "

26 PUDOVKIN

8. Shot from above. — The running crowd stops,
stands for a moment, and then rushes on anew.

9. A section of the running crowd knocks over
a woman.

10. Close-up. — The woman who fell raises her-
self, and clasps her head, swaying.

1 1 . The running mass.

Here is shown the editing of quickly alternating
pieces, creating the desired excitement by their
rhythm. The increase in size of the title emphasises
the increasing panic.

Of course, this form of scenario requires thorough,
special training, but I repeat once again that only
determined effort on the part of the scenarist to
reach as near as possible to this technically correct
form will turn him into a writer able to give in a
general treatment material even usable in film work.

A scenario will only be good if its writer shall have
mastered a knowledge of specific methods, if he
know how to use them as weapons for the winning
of effect ; otherwise the scenario will be but raw
material that must, to an extent of ninety per cent,
be subordinated to the treatment of a specialist.

Part II

THE PLASTIC MATERIAL

The scenario-writer must bear always in mind
the fact that every sentence that he writes will

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 27

have to appear plastically upon the screen in
some visible form. Consequently, it is not the words
he writes that are important, but the externally
expressed plastic images that he describes in these
words. As a matter of fact, it is not so easy to find
such plastic images. They must, before anything
else, be clear and expressive. Anyone familiar with
literary work can well represent to himself what is an
expressive word, or an expressive style ; he knows
that there are such things as telling, expressive words,
as vividly expressive word-constructions — sentences.
Similarly, he knows that the involved, obscure style
of an inexperienced writer, with a multitude of super-
fluous words, is the consequence of his inability to
select and control them. What is here said of literary
work is entirely applicable to the work of the
scenarist, only the word is replaced by the plastic
image. The scenarist must know how to find and
to use plastic (visually expressive) material : that
is to say, he must know how to discover and how to
select, from the limitless mass of material provided
by life and its observation, those forms and move-
ments that shall most clearly and vividly express in
images the whole content of his idea. 12

Let us quote certain illustrative examples.

In the film ToVable David there is a sequence in
which a new character — an escaped convict, a tramp
— comes into the action. The type of a thorough
scoundrel. The task of the scenarist was to give his
characteristics. Let us analyse how it was done, by
describing the series of following shots.

28 PUDOVKIN

i . The tramp — a degenerate brute, his face over-
grown with unshaven bristles — is about to enter a
house, but stops, his attention caught by something.

2. Close-up of the face of the watching tramp.

3. Showing what he sees — a tiny, fluffy kitten
asleep in the sun.

4. The tramp again. He raises a heavy stone with
the transparent intention of using it to obliterate
the sleeping little beast, and only the casual push
of a fellow, just then carrying objects into the house,
hinders him from carrying out his cruel intention.

In this little incident there is not one single
explanatory title, and yet it is effective,! clearly and
vividly. Why? Because the plastic material has
been correctly and suitably chosen. The sleeping
kitten is a perfect expression of complete innocence
and freedom from care, and thus the heavy stone in
the hands of the huge man immediately becomes the
symbol of absurd and senseless cruelty to the mind
of the spectator who sees this scene. Thus the end is
attained. The characterisation is achieved, and at
the same time its abstract content wholly expressed,
with the help of happily chosen plastic material.

Another example from the same film. The con-
text of the incident is as follows : misfortune is come
upon a family of peasants — the eldest son has been
crippled by a blow with a stone ; the father has died
of a heart-attack ; the youngest son (the hero of the
film), still half a boy, knows who is responsible for
all their ills — the tramp, who had treacherously
attacked his brother. Again and again in the course

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 29

of the picture the youngster seeks to be revenged
upon the blackguard. The weapon of revenge — an
old flint-lock. When the disabled brother is brought
into the house, and the family, dazed with despair,
is gathered round his bed, the boy, half crying, half
gritting his teeth, secretly loads the flint-lock. The
sudden death of the father and the supplications of
the mother, clinging in despair to the feet of her son,
restrain his outbreak. The boy remains the sole
hope of the family. When, later, he again reaches
secretly for the flint-lock and takes it from the wall,
the voice of his mother, calling him to go and buy
soap, compels him to hang the gun up again and
run out to the store. Note with what mastery the
old, clumsy-looking flint-lock is here employed. It
is as if it incarnated the thirst for revenge that
tortures the boy. Every time the hand reaches for
the flint-lock the spectator knows what is passing in
the mind of the hero. No titles, no explanations are
necessary. Recall the scene of soap fetched for the
mother just described. Hanging up the flint-lock and
running to the store implies forgetfulness of self for the
sake of another. This is a perfect characterisation,
rendering on the one hand the naive directness of
the man still half a child, on the other his awakening
sense of duty.

Another example, from the film The Leather
Pushers. The incident is as follows. A man sitting
at a table is waiting for his friend. He is smoking a
cigarette, and in front of him on the table stand an
ash-tray and a glass half empty of liquid, both filled

30 PUDOVKIN

with an enormous number of cigarette ends. The
spectator immediately visualises the great space of
time the man has been waiting and, no less, the
degree of excitement that has made him smoke
nearly a hundred cigarettes.

From the examples quoted above it will be clear
what is to be understood by the term : expressive
plastic material. We have found here a kitten, a
tramp, a stone, a flint-lock, some cigarette ends, and
not one of these objects or persons yas introduced
by chance ; each constitutes a visual image, requir-
ing no explanation and yet carrying a clear and
definite meaning.

Hence an important rule for the scenarist : in
working out each incident he must carefully consider
and select each visual image ; he must remember
that for each concept, each idea, there may be tens
and hundreds of possible means of plastic expression,
and that it is his task to select from amongst them
the clearest and most vivid. Special attention, how-
ever, must be paid to the special part played in
pictures by objects. Relationships between human
beings are, for the most part, illuminated by con-
versations, by words ; no one carries on conversa-
tion with objects, and that is why work with them,
being expressed by visual action, is of special interest
to the film technician, as we have just seen in these
examples. Try to imagine to yourself anger, joy,
confusion, sorrow, and so forth expressed not in
words and the gestures accompanying them, but in
action connected with objects, and you will see how

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 31

images saturated with plastic expression come into
your mind. Work on plastic material is of the
highest importance for the scenarist. In the process
of it he learns to imagine to himself what he has
written as it will appear upon the screen, and the
knowledge thus acquired is essential for correct and
fruitful work.

One must try to express one's concepts in clear
and vivid visual images. Suppose it be a matter of
the characterisation of some person of the action —
this person must be placed in such conditions as will
make him appear, by means of some action or move-
ment, in the desired light (remember the tramp
and the kitten). Suppose it be a matter of the
representation of some event — those scenes must be
assembled that most vividly emphasise visually the
essence of the event represented.

In relation to what we have said, we must turn
to the question of sub-titles. The usual view of titles
as an invading, adventitious element, to be avoided
wherever possible, is fundamentally erroneous. The
title is an organic part of the film and, consequently,
of the scenario. Naturally a title can be super-
fluous, but only in the sense in which a whole scene
can be superfluous. According to their content
titles can be divided into two groups :

CONTINUITY TITLES

Titles of this kind give the spectator a necessary
explanation in short and clear form, and thus

32 PUDOVKIN

sometimes replace a whole episode of the action in the
development of the scenario. Let us take an
example from ToVable David. Three tramps, needed
by the scenarist to create an opposing evil influence
to the hero of the scenario, are introduced. Before
their appearance on the screen comes a title : " Three
convicts escaped from the nearest prison." Naturally
the escape itself could be shown ihstead of the title,
but, as it is not the escape, but thp tramps that are
important to the scenarist, he replaces the whole
incident of the escape, as having no basic impor-
tance in the development of the action, by a title.
The essential action — the appearance of the tramps
— is shown on the screen preceded by a continuity
title. This is correct construction. It is an entirely
different matter for a title to replace an essential
element of the scenario, where the subsequent action
is, so to say, its result. For example : after the title
" Olga, unable to endure the character of her hard-
hearted husband, resolved to leave him," Olga is
shown walking out of the front door. This is no
good at all. The action is weaker than the title, and
shows inability to resolve the plastic problem
concerned.

To the group " continuity tides " must also be
referred such titles as indicate an hour or place of
the action — for example : " in the evening," " at
Ivan's," replacing by words those parts of the
scenario the visual representation of which would
uselessly spin out and burden the development of
the action. To summarise what has been said about

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 33

continuity titles we must emphasise once again the
following : the continuity title is only good if it
removes the superfluous from the scenario, if it
shortly explains essentials to the spectator and
prepares him for clearer apprehension of the sub-
sequent action (as in the example with the tramps).
A continuity title must never be stronger than the
subsequent image of the action (as in the example
of Olga leaving her husband) . i3

SPOKEN TITLES

This kind of title introduces living, spoken speech
into the picture. Of their significance not much
need be said. The main consideration affecting
them is : good literary treatment and, certainly,
as much compression as possible.14 One must
consider that, on the average, every line of title
(two to three words) requires three feet of film.15
Consequently a title twelve words long stays on the
screen from twelve to eighteen seconds, and can,
by a temporal interruption of this kind, destroy the
rhythm, and with it the sequence and impression,
of the current shots.

Clarity is as important for the spoken as for the
continuity title. Superfluous words that may en-
hance the literary beauty of the sentence but will
complicate its rapid comprehension are not per-
missible. The film spectator has no time to savour
words. The title must " get " to the spectator
quickly — in the course of the process of being read.

34 PUDOVKIN

To what has been said must be added that in
construction of the scenario one must be careful of
the distribution of the titles. A continual, even
interruption of the action by titles is not desirable.
It is better to try to distribute them (this is especially
important with continuity titles) so that by con-
centrating them in one part I of the scenario the
remainder is left free for development of the action.
Thus work the Americans, giving all the necessary
explanations in the early reels, strengthening the
middle by use of more spoken titles, and at the end,
in quicker tempo, carrying through the bare action
to the finish without titles.

It is interesting to note that, apart from its literal
content, the title may have also a plastic content.
For example, often large, distinct lettering is used,
the importance of the word being associated with
the size of the letters with which it is formed. An
example — in the propaganda film Famine there was
an end title as follows : first appeared in normal
size the first word " Comrades " ; it disappeared
and was replaced by a larger " Brothers " ; and
finally appeared the third — filling the whole screen —
" Help ! " Such a title was undoubtedly more
effective than an ordinary one. Consideration of
the plastic size of the title is undoubtedly very
interesting, and this the scenarist should remember.16
Yet more important than the plastic aspect of a title
is its rhythmic significance. We have already said
that too long tides must not be used. This is not all ;
it must be borne in mind that with the length of a

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 35

title must be considered the speed of the action in
which it appears. Rapid action demands short,
abrupt titles 17 ; long-drawn-out action can be
linked only with slow ones.

THE SIMPLEST SPECIFIC METHODS OF
SHOOTING

Having learned the nature of plastic material, we
must gain a knowledge of some of the purely formal
methods used by the director and cameraman in
shooting the picture. The simplest of these are as
follows :

Fade-in 18 : The screen is entirely dark ; as it
becomes lighter the picture is disclosed.

Fade-out: The reverse process — the darkening of
the picture until it has disappeared.

The fade has mainly a rhythmic significance.
The slow withdrawal of the picture from the view-
field of the spectator corresponds, in contradistinc-
tion to its usual sudden breaking-off, to the slow
withdrawal of the spectator from the scene. One
usually ends a sequence with a fade-out, especially
when the scene itself has been carried out in retarded
tempo. For example : a man exhaustedly ap-
proaches an armchair, lowers himself into it, drops
his head in his hands — pause — slowly the shutter
closes.

The fade-in is, on the contrary, equivalent to the
purposeful introduction of the spectator to a new
environment and new action. It is used to begin a
film, or a separate sequence. In determining the

36 PUDOVKIN

general rhythm of the action one should indicate
the speed of the fade : quick, slow. Often shots are
bounded by a fade-in and fade-out — that is to say,
the scene begins with the opening and ends with
the closing of the shutter. By the use of this method
is achieved the emphasis 6f an incident divorced
from the general line of thk scenario — very often,
for example, this method is used for a refrain (leit-
motif) or a flash-back. The fade can take various
forms. A common form, now old-fashioned, is the
round iris. At an iris-in there appears upon the
dark screen a spot of light, disclosing the picture as
it broadens.19 Other forms of shutter are, for
example, an iris like a widening or narrowing slit,
a falling or rising horizontal shutter, vertical side
shutters, and so forth. It should be mentioned,
however, that the frequent use of various irises and
shutters 20 is unnecessarily trying to the spectator.

Shots in iris or in mask. — The screen is darkened
except for a light opening in the centre, round or
otherwise in shape. The action takes place in this
opening. This is a so-called " mask." Its employ-
ment has various meanings. The most common is
its use to let the spectator see from the viewpoint of
the hero — for example, the hero looks through a
keyhole ; there appears what he sees, shown in a
mask shaped like a keyhole. A field-glass-shaped
mask can also be used, and so forth.

It is interesting to note the special use of a small,
round mask (a stationary iris), often used in
American films. For example : (a) The hero

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 37

stands on a hill and gazes into the distance, (b) A
road taken from far off is shown in a little round
mask ; along the road gallops a horse. A dual
object is attained with this kind of shot : in the
first place, by the narrowing of the field of view the
attention of the spectator becomes concentrated
on that which the hero is looking at ; in the second
place, the small scale by which the impression of
distance is maintained is not lost.

The Mix. — The transition from one section of the
film to another is effected not by the usual cut, but
gradually — that is to say, one image disappears
slowly and another appears in its place. This
method has also a mainly rhythmic significance.
Mixes involve a slow rhythm. Often they are used
in the representation of a flash-back, as if imitating
the birth of one idea from another.

It is necessary to warn the scenarist against over-
use of mixes. Technically, in making a mix, the
cameraman, after having taken the one shot, must
immediately begin to take the other, which is not
always possible. If, for example, in a scenario the
action is indicated as follows : the Spasskaia Tower
(Moscow) mix to the Isaakievski Cathedral (Lenin-
grad), it means that after taking the tower the
cameraman must proceed immediately to Lenin-
grad.21

The Panorama (Pan). — In shooting, the camera is
given an even movement sideways, upwards, or
downwards.22 The lens of the camera turns to
follow the object shot as it moves before it, or glides

38 PUDOVKIN

along the object showing various parts of it one after
the other. This is a purely technical method, and
its significance is obvious.

Forward or Backward Movement ( Tracking or Trolley-
ing). — The camera approaches or becomes distant
from the object during the shot. This method is
nowadays scarcely ever used.23 It gives a gradual
transition from long-shot to close-up, and the
reverse.

Shots Out of Focus. — In the latest American films
one often notices sections (especially faces in close-
up) taken so that the outlines appear slightly indis-
tinct.24 This method undoubtedly gives a special
colour of softness and " tenderness," especially in
scenes of lyric character, but it must be considered
as a specific aesthetic method devoid of general
application.

Everything said here regarding simple methods
of taking shots has certainly only information value.
What particular method of shooting is to be used,
only his own taste and his own finer feelings can tell
the scenarist. Here are no rules ; the field for new
invention and combination is wide.

METHODS OF TREATMENT OF THE MATERIAL

(Structural Editing)

A cinematograph film, and consequently also a
scenario, is always divided into a great number of
separate pieces (more correctly, it is built out of
these pieces). The sum of the shooting-script is

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 39

divided into sequences, each sequence into scenes,25
and, finally, the scenes themselves are constructed
from a whole series of pieces (script-scenes) shot
from various angles. An actual scenario, ready for
use in shooting, must take into account this basic
property of the film. The scenarist must be able to
write his material on paper exactly as it will appear
upon the screen, thus giving exactly the content of
each shot as well as its position in sequence. The
construction of a scene from pieces, a sequence from
scenes, and reel from sequences, and so forth, is
called editing. Editing is one of the most significant
instruments of effect possessed by the film technician
and, therefore, by the scenarist also. Let us now
become acquainted with its methods one by one.

EDITING OF THE SCENE

Everyone familiar with a film is familiar with
the expression " close-up." The alternating repre-
sentation of the faces of the characters during a
dialogue ; the representation of hands, or feet,
filling the whole screen — all this is familiar to every-
one. But in order to know how properly to use the
close-up, one must understand its significance,
which is as follows : the close-up directs the atten-
tion of the spectator to that detail which is, at the
moment, important to the course of the action. For
instance, three persons are taking part in a scene.
Suppose the significance of this scene consist in the
general course of the action (if, for example, all three
are lifting some heavy object), then they are taken

40 PUDOVKIN

simultaneously in a general view, the so-called long-
shot. But suppose any one of them change to an
independent action having significance in the
scenario (for example, separating himself from the
others, he draws a revolver cautiously from his
pocket), then the camera is directed on him alone.
His action is recorded separately.

What is said above applies not only to persons,
but also to separate parts of a person, and objects.
Let us suppose a man is to be taken apparently
listening calmly to the conversation of someone else,
but actually restraining his anger with difficulty.
The man crushes the cigarette he holds in his hand,
a gesture unnoticed by the other. This hand will
always be shown on the screen separately, in close-
up, otherwise the spectator will not notice it and a
characteristic detail will be missed. The view
formerly obtained (and is still held by some) that
the close-up is an " interruption " of the long-shot.
This idea is entirely false. It is no sort of interrup-
tion . It represents a proper form of construction.

In order to make clear to oneself the nature of the
process of editing a scene, one may draw the follow-
ing analogy. Imagine yourself observing a scene
unfolded in front of you, thus : a man stands near
the wall of a house and turns his head to the left ;
there appears another man slinking cautiously
through the gate. The two are fairly widely distant
from one another — they stop. The first takes some
object and shows it to the other, mocking him. The
latter clenches his fists in a rage and throws himself

ON FILM^ TECHNIQUE 41

at the former. At this moment a woman looks out
of a window on the third floor and calls, " Police ! "
The antagonists run off in opposite directions.
Now, how would this have been observed ?

1 . The observer looks at the first man. He turns
his head.

2. What is he looking at ? The observer turns
his glance in the same direction and sees the man
entering the gate. The latter stops.

3. How does the first react to the appearance on
the scene of the second ? A new turn by the
observer ; the first takes out an object and mocks
the second.

4. How does the second react ? Another turn ; he
clenches his fists and throws himself on his opponent.

5. The observer draws aside to watch how both
opponents roll about fighting.

6. A shout from above. The observer raises his
head and sees the woman shouting at the window.

7. The observer lowers his head and sees the
result of the warning— the antagonists running off
in opposite directions.

The observer happened to be standing near and
saw every detail, saw it clearly, but to do so he had
to turn his head, first left, then right, then upwards,
whithersoever his attention was attracted by the
interest of observation and the sequence of the
developing scene. Suppose he had been standing
farther away from the action, taking in the two
persons and the window on the third floor simul-
taneously, he would have received only a general

42 PUDOVKIN

impression, without being able to look separately
at the first, the secpnd, or the woman. Here we
have approached closely the basic significance of
editing. Its object ii the showing of the develop-
ment of the scene in relief, as it were, by guiding the
attention of the spectator now to one, now to the
other separate element. The lens of the camera
replaces the eye of the observer, and the changes of
angle of the camera — directed now on one person,
now on another, now on one detail, now on another
— must be subject to the same conditions as those of
the eyes of the observer. The film technician, in
order to secure the greatest clarity, emphasis, and
vividness, shoots the scene in separate pieces and,
joining them and showing them, directs the atten-
tion of the spectator to the separate elements, com-
pelling him to see as the attentive observer saw.
From the above is clear the manner in which editing
can even work upon the emotions. Imagine to your-
self the excited observer of some rapidly developing
scene. His agitated glance is thrown rapidly from
one spot to another. If we imitate this glance with
the camera we get a series of pictures, rapidly
alternating pieces, creating a stirring scenario editing-
construction. The reverse would be long pieces chang-
ing by mixes, conditioning a calm and slow editing-
construction (as one may shoot, for example, a herd
of cattle wandering along a road, taken from the
viewpoint of a pedestrian on the same road) .

We have established, by these instances, the basic
significance of the constructive editing of scenes.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 43

It builds the scenes from separate pieces, of which
each concentrates the attention of the spectator
only on that element important to the action. The
sequence of these pieces must not be uncontrolled,
but must correspond to the natural transference of
attention of an imaginary observer (who, in the end,
is represented by the spectator). In this sequence
must be expressed a special logic that will be
apparent only if each shot contain an impulse
towards transference of the attention to the next.
For example (1) A man turns his head and looks ;
(2) What he looks at is shown.

EDITING OF THE SEQUENCE

The guidance of the attention of the spectator to
different elements of the developing action in
succession is, in general, characteristic of the film.
It is its basic method. We have seen that the
separate scene, and often even the movement of one
man, is built up upon the screen from separate
pieces. Now, the film is not simply a collection of
different scenes. Just as the pieces are built up
into scenes endowed, as it were, with a connected
action, so the separate scenes are assembled into
groups forming whole sequences. The sequence is
constructed (edited) from scenes. Let us suppose
ourselves faced with the task of constructing the
following sequence : two spies are creeping forward
to blow up a powder magazine ; on the way one
of them loses a letter with instructions. Someone
else finds the letter and warns the guard, who appear

44 PUDOVKIN

in time to arrest the spies and save the magazine.
Here the scenarist has to deal with simultaneity of
various actions ih several different places. While
the spies are crawling towards the magazine, some-
one else finds the letter and hastens to warn the
guard. The spies have nearly reached their objec-
tive ; the guards are warned and rushing towards
the magazine. The spies have completed their
preparations ; the guard arrives in time. If we
pursue the previous analogy betwen the camera
and an observer, we now not only have to turn it
from side to side, but also to move it from place to
place. The observer (the camera) is now on the
road shadowing the spies, now in the guardroom
recording the confusion, now back at the magazine
showing the spies at work, and so forth. But, in
combination of the separate scenes (editing), the
former law of sequence succession remains in force.
A consecutive sequence will appear upon the screen
only if the attention of the spectator be transferred
correctly from scene to scene. And this correctness
is conditioned as follows : the spectator sees the
creeping spies, the loss of the letter, and finally the
person who finds the letter. The person with the
letter rushes for help. The spectator is seized with
inevitable excitement — Will the man who found
the letter be able to forestall the explosion ? The
scenarist immediately answers by showing the spies
nearing the magazine — his answer has the effect of
a warning " Time is short." The excitement of the
spectator — Will they be in time ? — continues ; the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 45

scenarist shows the guard turning out. Time is very
short — the spies are shown beginning their work.
Thus, transferring attention now to the rescuers,
now to the spies, the scenarist answers with actual
impulses to increase of the spectator's interest, and
the construction (editing) of the sequence is correctly
achieved.

There is a law in psychology that lays it down
that if an emotion give birth to a certain movement,
by imitation of this movement the corresponding
emotion can be called forth. If the scenarist can
effect in even rhythm the transference of interest of
the intent spectator, if he can so construct the
elements of increasing interest that the question,
" What is happening at the other place ? " arises
and at the same moment the spectator is transferred
whither he wishes to go, then the editing thus
created can really excite the spectator. One must
learn to understand that editing is in actual fact a
compulsory and deliberate guidance of the thoughts
and associations of the spectator. If the editing be
merely an uncontrolled combination of the various
pieces, the spectator will understand (apprehend)
nothing from it ; but if it be co-ordinated according
to a definitely selected course of events or conceptual
line, either agitated or calm, it will either excite or
soothe the spectator.

EDITING OF THE SCENARIO 26

The film is divided into reels. The reels are
usually equal in length, on an average from 900 to

46 PUDOVKIN

1,200 feet long. The combination of the reels forms
the picture. The usual length of a picture should
not be more than from 6,500 to 7,500 feet. This
length, as yet, involves no unnecessary exhaustion
of the spectator. The film is usually divided into
from six to eight reels. It should be noted here, as a
practical hint, that the average length of a piece
(remember the editing of scenes) is from 6 to 10 feet,
and consequently from 100 to 150 pieces go to a
reel. By orientating himself on these figures, the
scenarist can visualise how much material can be
fitted into the scenario. The scenario is composed
of a series of sequences. In discussing the con-
struction (editing) of the scenario from sequences,
we introduce a new element into the scenarist's
work — the element of so-called dramatic con-
tinuity of action that was discussed at the beginning
of this sketch. The continuity of the separate
sequences when joined together depends not merely
upon the simple transference of attention from one
place to another, but is conditioned by the develop-
ment of the action forming the foundation of the
scenario. It is important, however, to remind the
scenarist of the following point : a scenario has
always in its development a moment of greatest
tension, found nearly always at the end of the film.
To prepare the spectator, or, more correctly,
preserve him, for this final tension, it is especially
important to see that he is not affected by unneces-
sary exhaustion during the course of the film. A
method, already discussed, that the scenarist can

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 47

employ to this end is the careful distribution of the
titles (which always distract the spectator), securing
compression of the greater quantity of them into the
first reels, and leaving the last one for uninterrupted
action.

Thus, first is worked out the action of the scenario,
the action is then worked out into sequences, the
sequences into scenes, and these constructed by
editing from the pieces, each corresponding to a
camera angle.

EDITING AS AN INSTRUMENT OF IMPRESSION

(Relational Editing)

We have already mentioned, in the section on
editing of sequences, that editing is not merely a
method of the junction of separate scenes or pieces,
but is a method that controls the " psychological
guidance " of the spectator. We should now
acquaint ourselves with the main special editing
methods having as their aim the impression of the
spectator.

Contrast. — Suppose it be our task to tell of the
miserable situation of a starving man ; the story will
impress the more vividly if associated with mention
of the senseless gluttony of a well-to-do man.

On just such a simple contrast relation is based
the corresponding editing method. On the screen
the impression of this contrast is yet increased, for it
is possible not only to relate the starving sequence
to the gluttony sequence, but also to relate separate

48 PUDOVKIN

scenes and even separate shots of the scenes to one
another, thus, as it were, forcing the spectator to
compare the two actions all the time, one strengthen-
ing the other. The editing of contrast is one of the
most effective, but also one of the commonest and
most standardised, of methods, and so care should
be taken not to overdo it.

Parallelism. — This method resembles contrast, but
is considerably wider. Its substance can be ex-
plained more clearly by an example. In a scenario
as yet unproduced a section occurs as follows :
a working man, one of the leaders of a strike, is
condemned to death ; the execution is fixed for
5 a.m. The sequence is edited thus : a factory-
owner, employer of the condemned man, is leaving
a restaurant drunk, he looks at his wrist-watch :
4 o'clock. The accused is shown — he is being
made ready to be led out. Again the manufac-
turer, he rings a door-bell to ask the time : 4.30.
The prison waggon drives along the street under
heavy guard. The maid who opens the door — the
wife of the condemned — is subjected to a sudden
senseless assault. The drunken factory-owner snores
on a bed, his leg with trouser-end upturned, his
hand hanging down with wrist-watch visible, the
hands of the watch crawl slowly to 5 o'clock. The
workman is being hanged. In this instance two
thematically unconnected incidents develop in
parallel by means of the watch that tells of the
approaching execution. The watch on the wrist of
the callous brute, as it were connects him with the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 49

chief protagonist of the approaching tragic denoue-
ment, thus ever present in the consciousness of the
spectator. This is undoubtedly an interesting
method, capable of considerable development.

Symbolism. — In the final scenes of the film Strike
the shooting down of workmen is punctuated by
shots of the slaughter of a bull in a stockyard. The
scenarist, as it were, desires to say : just as a butcher
fells a bull with the swing of a pole-axe, so, cruelly
and in cold blood, were shot down the workers.
This method is especially interesting because, by
means of editing, it introduces an abstract concept
into the consciousness of the spectator without use
of a title.

Simultaneity. — In American films the final section
is constructed from the simultaneous rapid develop-
ment of two actions, in which the outcome of one
depends on the outcome of the other. The end of
the present-day section of Intolerance, already quoted,
is thus constructed.27 The whole aim of this method
is to create in the spectator a maximum tension of
excitement by the constant forcing of a question,
such as, in this case : Will they be in time ?^— will
they be in time ?

The method is a purely emotional one, and now-
adays overdone almost to the point of boredom, but
it cannot be denied that of all the methods of con-
structing the end hitherto devised it is the most
effective.

Leit-motif {reiteration of theme) . — Often it is interest-
ing for the scenarist especially to emphasise the

5o PUDOVKIN

basic theme of the scenario. For this purpose exists
the method of reiteration. Its nature can easily be
demonstrated by an example. In an anti-religious
scenario that aimed at exposing the cruelty and
hypocrisy of the Church in employ of the Tsarist
regime the same shot was several times repeated :
a church-bell slowly ringing and, superimposed on
it, the title : " The sound of bells sends into the
world a message of patience and love." This
piece appeared whenever the scenarist desired to
emphasise the stupidity of patience, or the hypocrisy
of the love thus preached.

The little that has been said above of relational
editing naturally by no means exhausts the whole
abundance of its methods. It has merely been
important to show that constructional editing, a
method specifically and peculiarly filmic, is, in the
hands of the scenarist, an important instrument of
impression. Careful study of its use in pictures,
combined with talent, will undoubtedly lead to the
discovery of new possibilities and, in conjunction
with them, to the creation of new forms.

(First published as Number Three of a series of popular scientific
film handbooks by Kinopetchat, Moscow and Leningrad, 1926.)

/

II

FILM DIRECTOR AND FILM MATERIAL

Part I
THE PECULIARITIES OF FILM MATERIAL

THE FILM AND THE THEATRE

IN the earliest years of its existence the film
was no more than an interesting invention
that made it possible to record movements,
a faculty denied to simple photography. On the
film, the appearances of all possible movements could
be seized and fixed. The first films consisted of
primitive attempts to fix upon the celluloid, as a
novelty, the movements of a train, crowds passing by
upon the street, a landscape seen from a railway-
carriage window, and so forth. Thus, in the begin-
ning, the film was, from its nature, only " living
photography." The first attempts to relate cinema-
tography to the world of art were naturally bound
up with the Theatre. Similarly only as a novelty,
like the shots of the railway-engine and the moving
sea, primitive scenes of comic or dramatic character,
played by actors, began to be recorded. The film
public appeared. There grew up a whole series of
relatively small, specialised theatres in which these
primitive films were shown.

The film now began to assume all the charac-
teristics of an industry (and indeed a very profitable

c* 51

52 PUDOVKIN

one). The great significance was realised of the
fact that from a single negative can be printed
many positives, and that by this means a reel of film
can be multiplied like a book, and spread broadcast
in many copies.28 Great possibilities began to open
themselves out. No longer was the film regarded
as a mere novelty. The first experiments in record-
ing serious and significant material appeared. The
relationship with the Theatre could not, however,
yet be dissolved, and it is easy to understand how,
once again, the first steps of the film producer
consisted in attempts to carry plays over on to
celluloid. It seemed at that time to be especially
interesting to endow the theatrical performance —
the work of the actor, whose art had hitherto been
but transitory, and real only in the moment of
perception by the spectator — with the quality of
duration.

The film remained, as before, but living photo-
graphy. Art did not enter into the work of him who
made it. He only photographed the " art of the
actor." Of a peculiar method for the film actor, of
peculiar and special properties of the film or of tech-
nique in shooting the picture for the director, there
could as yet be no suspicion. How, then, did the
film director of that time work ? At his disposal was
a scenario, exactly resembling the play written for
the Theatre by the playwright ; only the words of
the characters were missing, and these, as far as
possible, were replaced by dumb show, and some-
times by long-winded titles. The director played the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 53

scene through in its exact theatrical sequence ; he
recorded the walkings to and fro, the entrances and
exits of the actors. He took the scene thus played-
through as a whole, while the cameraman, always
turning, fixed it as a whole upon the celluloid. The
process of shooting could not be conceived of other-
wise, for as director's material served these same real
persons — actors — with whom one worked also in
the Theatre ; the camera served only for the simple
fixation of scenes already completely arranged and
definitely planned. The pieces of film shot were
stuck together in simple temporal sequence of the
developing action, just as the act of a play is formed
from scenes, and then were presented to the public as
a picture. To sum up in short, the work of the film
director differed in no wise from that of the theatrical
producer.

A play, exactly recorded upon celluloid and pro-
jected upon a screen, with the actors deprived of
their words — that was the film of those early days.

THE METHODS OF THE FILM

The Americans were the first to discover in the film-
play the presence of peculiar possibilities of its own.
It was perceived that the film can not only make a
simple record of the events passing before the lens,
but that it is in a position to reproduce them upon
the screen by special methods, proper only to itself.

Let us take as example a demonstration that files
by upon the street. Let us picture to ourselves an
observer of that demonstration. In order to receive

54 PUDOVKIN

a clear and definite impression of the demonstration,
the observer must perform certain actions. First he
must climb upon the roof of a house, to get a view
from above of the procession as a whole and measure
its dimensions ; next he must come down and look
out through the first-floor window at the inscriptions
on the banners carried by the demonstrators ; finally,
he must mingle with the crowd, to gain an idea of
the outward appearance of the participants.

Three times the observer has altered his view-
point, gazing now from nearer, now from farther
away, with the purpose of acquiring as complete
and exhaustive as possible a picture of the pheno-
menon under review. The Americans were the first
to seek to replace an active observer of this kind by
means of the camera. They showed in their work that
it was not only possible to record the scene shot, but
that by manoeuvring with the camera itself — in such
a way that its position in relation to the object shot
varied several times — it was made possible to repro-
duce the same scene in far clearer and more expres-
sive form than with the lens playing the part of a
theatre spectator sitting fast in his stall. The camera,
until now a motionless spectator, at last received, as
it were, a charge of life. It acquired the faculty of
movement on its own, and transformed itself from a
spectator to an active observer. Henceforward the
camera, controlled by the director, could not merely
enable the spectator to see the object shot, but could
induce him to apprehend it.

It was at this moment that the concepts close-up,

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 55

mid-shot, and long-shot first appeared in cinemato-
graphy, concepts that later played an enormous part
in the creative craft of editing, the basis of the work
of film direction. Now, for the first time, became
apparent the difference between the theatrical pro-
ducer and his colleague of the film. In the beginning
the material with which both theatrical producer
and film director worked was identical. The same
actors playing through in their same sequence the
same scenes, which were but shorter, and, at the
most, unaccompanied by words. The technique of
acting for the films differed in no respect from that
of stage-acting. The only problem was the replace-
ment, as comprehensibly as possible, of words by
gestures. That was the time when the film was
rightly named " a substitute for the stage."

FILM AND REALITY

But, with the grasping of the concept editing, the
position became basically altered. The real material
of film-art proved to be not those actual scenes on
which the lens of the camera is directed. The
theatrical producer has always to do only with real
processes — they are his material. His finally com-
posed and created work — the scene produced and
played upon the stage — is equally a real and actual
process, that takes place in obedience to the laws of
real space and real time. When a stage-actor finds
himself at one end of the stage, he cannot cross to
the other without taking a certain necessary number
of paces. And crossings and intervals of this kind are

56 PUDOVKIN

a thing indispensable, conditioned by the laws of real
space and real time, with which the theatrical pro-
ducer has always to reckon, and which he is never
in a position to overstep. In fact, in work with
real processes, a whole series of intervals linking the
separate significant points of action are unavoidable.

If, on the other hand, we consider the work of
the film director, then it appears that the active raw
material is no other than those pieces of celluloid on
which, from various viewpoints, the separate move-
ments of the action have been shot. From nothing
but these pieces is created those appearances upon
the screen that form the filmic representation of
the action shot. And thus the material of the film
director consists not of real processes happening in
real space and real time, but of those pieces of cellu-
loid on which these processes have been recorded.
This celluloid is entirely subject to the will of the
director who edits it. He can, in the composition of
the filmic form of any given appearance, eliminate
all points of interval, and thus concentrate the action
in time to the highest degree he may require.

This method of temporal concentration, the concen-
tration of action by the elimination of unnecessary
points of interval, occurs also, in a more simplified
form, in the Theatre. It finds its expression in the
construction of a play from acts. The element of
play-construction by which several years are made
to pass between the first and second act is, properly,
an analogous temporal concentration of the action.
In the film this method is not only pursued to a

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 57

maximum, it forms the actual basis of filmic repre-
sentation. Though it is possible for the theatrical
producer temporally to approach two neighbouring
acts, he is, none the less, unable to do the same with
separate incidents in a single scene.29

The film director, on the contrary, can concen-
trate in time not only separate incidents, but even
the movements of a single person. This process, that
has often been termed a " film trick/' is, in fact,
nothing other than the characteristic method of
filmic representation.

In order to show on the screen the fall of a man
from a window five stories high, the shots can be
taken in the following way :

First the man is shot falling from the window into
a net, in such a way that the net is not visible on
the screen 30 ; then the same man is shot falling from
a slight height to the ground. Joined together, the
two shots give in projection the desired impression.
The catastrophic fall never occurs in reality, it occurs
only on the screen, and is the resultant of two pieces
of celluloid joined together. From the event of a
real, actual fall of a person from an appalling height,
two points only are selected : the beginning of the
fall and its end. The intervening passage through
the air is eliminated. It is not correct to call the
process a trick ; it is a method of filmic representa-
tion exactly corresponding to the elimination of the
five years that divide a first act from a second upon
the stage.

From the example of the observer watching the

58 PUDOVKIN

demonstration pass by on the street, we learned that
the process of film-shooting may be not only a simple
fixation of the event taking place before the lens, but
also a peculiar form of representation of this event.
Between the natural event and its appearance upon
the screen there is a marked difference. It is exactly
this difference that makes the film an art. Guided by the
director, the camera assumes the task of removing
every superfluity and directing the attention of the
spectator in such a way that he shall see only that
which is significant and characteristic. When the
demonstration was shot, the camera, after having
viewed the crowd from above in the long-shot, forced
its way into the press and picked out the most
characteristic details. These details were not the
result of chance, they were selected, and, moreover,
selected in such a way that from their sum, as from
a sum of separate elements, the image of the whole
action could be assembled. Let us suppose, for
instance, that the demonstration to be recorded is
characterised by its component detail : first Red
soldiers, then workmen, and finally Pioneers.31
Suppose the film technician try to show the spectator
the detail composition of this demonstration by
simply setting the camera at a fixed point and letting
the crowd go by unbroken before the lens, then he
will force the spectator to spend exactly as much
time in watching the representation as he would
have needed to let the crowd itself go by. By taking
the procession in this way he would force the spec-
tator to apprehend the mass of detail as it streamed

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 59

past. But, by the use of that method peculiar to
films, three short pieces can be taken separately :
the Red soldiers, the workmen, and the Pioneers.
The combination of these separate pieces with the
general view of the crowd provides an image of the
demonstration from which no element is lacking.
The spectator is enabled to appreciate both its
composition and its dimension, only the time in
which he effects that appreciation is altered.

FILMIC SPACE AND TIME

Created by the camera, obedient to the will of
the director — after the cutting and joining of the
separate pieces of celluloid — there arises a new
filmic time ; not that real time embraced by the
phenomenon as it takes place before the camera,
but a new filmic time, conditioned only by the speed
of perception and controlled by the number and
duration of the separate elements selected for filmic
representation of the action.

Every action takes place not only in time, but also
in space. Filmic time is distinguished from actual
in that it is dependent only on the lengths of the
separate pieces of celluloid joined together by the
director. Like time, so also is filmic space bound
up with the chief process of film-making, editing.
By the junction of the separate pieces the director
builds a filmic space entirely his own. He unites
and compresses separate elements, that have perhaps
been recorded by him at differing points of real,
actual space, into one filmic space. By virtue of the

60 PUDOVKIN

possibility of eliminating points of passage and
interval, which we have already analysed and which
obtains in all film-work, filmic space appears as a
synthesis of real elements picked out by the camera.

Remember the example of the man falling from
the fifth floor. That which is in reality but a ten-
foot fall into a net and a six-foot further leap from
a bench appears upon the screen as a fall from a
hundred feet high.

L. V. Kuleshov assembled in the year 1920 the
following scenes as an experiment :

1. A young man walks from left to right.

2. A woman walks from right to left.

3. They meet and shake hands. The young man
points.

4. A large white building is shown, with a broad
flight of steps.

5. The two ascend the steps.

The pieces, separately shot, were assembled in
the order given and projected upon the screen. The
spectator was presented with the pieces thus joined
as one clear, uninterrupted action : a meeting of
two young people, an invitation to a nearby house,
and an entry into it. Every single piece, however,
had been shot in a different place ; for example, the
young man near the G.U.M. building, the woman
near Gogol's monument, the handshake near the
Bolshoi Teatr, the white house came out of an
American picture (it was, in fact, the White House),
and the ascent of the steps was made at St. Saviour's

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 61

Cathedral. What happened as a result? Though
the shooting had been done in varied locations, the
spectator perceived the scene as a whole. The parts
of real space picked out by the camera appeared
concentrated, as it were, upon the screen. There
resulted what Kuleshov termed " creative geo-
graphy." By the process of junction of pieces of
celluloid appeared a new, filmic space without
existence in reality. Buildings separated by a dis-
tance of thousands of miles were concentrated to a
space that could be covered by a few paces of the
actors.

THE MATERIAL OF FILMS

We have now established the chief points in the
difference between the work of the film director and
that of the theatrical producer. This difference lies
in the distinction of material. The theatrical pro-
ducer works with real actuality, which, though he
may always remould, yet forces him to remain bound
by the laws of real space and real time. The film
director, on the other hand, has as his material
the finished, recorded celluloid. This material from
which his final work is composed consists not of
living men or real landscapes, not of real, actual
stage-sets, but only of their images, recorded on
separate strips that can be shortened, altered, and
asembled according to his will. The elements of
reality are fixed on these pieces ; by combining them
in his selected sequence, shortening and lengthening
them according to his desire, the director builds up
his own " filmic " time and " filmic " space. He

62 PUDOVKIN

does not adapt reality, but uses it for the creation
of a new reality, and the most characteristic and
important aspect of this process is that, in it, laws of
space and time invariable and inescapable in work
with actuality become tractable and obedient. The
film assembles the elements of reality to build from
them a new reality proper only to itself; and the
laws of space and time, that, in work with living
men, with sets and the footage of the stage, are fixed
and fast, are, in the film, entirely altered. Filmic
space and filmic time, the creation of the technician,
are entirely subject to the director. The basic
method of filmic representation, this construction of
the unity of a film from separate pieces or elements,
the superfluous among which can be eliminated and
only the characteristic and significant retained, offers
exceptional possibilities.

Everyone knows that the nearer we approach a
regarded object, the less material appears simul-
taneously in our view-field ; the more clearly our
investigating glance examines an object, the more
details we perceive and the more limited and sec-
tional becomes our view. We no longer perceive
the object as a whole, but pick out the details with
our glance in order, thus receiving by association
an impression of the whole that is far more vivid,
deeper, and sharper than if we had gazed at the
object from a distance and perceived the whole in
a general view, inevitably missing detail in so doing.
When we wish to apprehend anything, we always
begin with the general outlines, and then, by

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 63

intensifying our examination to the highest degree,
enrich the apprehension by an ever-increasing
number of details. The particular, the detail, will
always be a synonym of intensification. It is upon
this that the strength of the film depends, that its
characteristic speciality is the possibility of giving a
clear, especially vivid representation of detail. The
power of filmic representation lies in the fact that,
by means of the camera, it continually strives to
penetrate as deeply as possible, to the mid-point of
every image. The camera, as it were, forces itself,
ever striving, into the profoundest deeps of life ; it
strives thither to penetrate, whither the average
spectator never reaches as he glances casually around
him. The camera goes deeper ; anything it can see
it approaches, and thereafter eternalises upon the
celluloid. When we approach a given, real image,
we must spend a definite effort and time upon it, in
advancing from the general to the particular, in
intensifying our attention to that point at which we
begin to remark and apprehend details. By the
process of editing the film removes, eliminates, this
effort. The film spectator is an ideal, perspicuous
observer. And it is the director who makes him so.
In the discovered, deeply embedded detail there lies
an element of perception, the creative element that
characterises as art the work of man, the sole element
that gives the event shown its final worth.

To show something as everyone sees it is to have
accomplished nothing. Not that material that is
embraced in a first, casual, merely general and

64 PUDOVKIN

superficial glance is required, but that which dis-
closes itself to an intent and searching glance, that
can and will see deeper. This is the reason why the
greatest artists, those technicians who feel the film
most acutely, deepen their work with details. To
do this they discard the general aspect of the image,
and the points of interval that are the inevitable
concomitant of every natural event. The theatrical
producer, in working with his material, is not in a
position to remove from the view of the spectator
that background, that mass of general and inevitable
outline, that surrounds the characteristic and parti-
cular details. He can only underline the most
essential, leaving the spectator himself to concentrate
upon what he underlines. The film technician,
equipped with his camera, is infinitely more powerful.
The attention of the spectator is entirely in his hands.
The lens of the camera is the eye of the spectator.
He sees and remarks only that which the direc-
tor desires to show him, or, more correctly put,
that which the director himself sees in the action
concerned.

ANALYSIS

In the disappearance of the general, obvious out-
line and the appearance on the screen of some deeply
hidden detail, filmic representation attains the
highest point of its power of external expression.
The film, by showing him the detail without its back-
ground, releases the spectator from the unnecessary
task of eliminating superfluities from his view-field.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 65

By eliminating distraction it spares the spectator's
energy, and reaches thereby the clearest and most
marked effect. As example we shall take some
instances from well-known films in which notable
directors have attained great strength of expression.
As example, the trial scene in Griffith's Intolerance.
Here there is a scene in which a woman hears the
death sentence passed on her husband, who is
innocent of the crime. The director shows the face
of the woman : an anxious, trembling smile through
tears. Suddenly the spectator sees for an instant
her hands, only her hands, the fingers convulsively
gripping the skin. This is one of the most powerful
moments in the film. Not for a minute did we see
the whole figure, but only the face, and the hands.
And it is perhaps by virtue of this fact that the
director understood how to choose and to show, from
the mass of real material available, only these two
characteristic details, that he attained the wonderful
power of impression notable in this scene. Here
once more we encounter the process, mentioned
above, of clear selection, the possibility of the
elimination of those insignificances that fulfil only
a transition function and are always inseparable from
reality, and of the retention only of climactic
and dramatic points. Exactly upon this possibility
depends the essence of the significance of editing,
the basic process of filmic creation. Confusion by
linkage and wastage by intervals are inevitable
attributes of reality. When a spectator is dealing
with actuality he can overcome them only by a given

66 PUDOVKIN

effort of attention. He rests his glance on a face,
then lets it glide down the body until finally it rests
attentively on the hands — this is what a spectator
has to do when looking at a real woman in real
surroundings.

The film spares this work of stopping and down-
ward-gliding. Thus the spectator spends no super-
fluous energy. By elimination of the points of
interval the director endows the spectator with the
energy preserved, he charges him, and thus the
appearance assembled from a series of significant
details is stronger in force of expression from the
screen than is the appearance in actuality.

We now perceive that the work of the film director
has a double character. For the construction of
filmic form he requires proper material ; if he wishes
to work filmically, he cannot and must not record
reality as it presents itself to the actual, average
onlooker. To create a filmic form, he must select
those elements from which this form will later be
assembled. To assemble these elements, he must first
find them. And now we hit on the necessity for a
special process of analysis of every real event that
the director wishes to use in a shot. For every event
a process has to be carried out comparable to the
process in mathematics termed " differentiation " —
that is to say, dissection into parts or elements. Here
the technique of observation links up with the
creative process of the selection of the characteristic
elements necessary for the future finished work. In
order to represent the woman in the court scene,

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 67

Griffith probably imagined, he may even have
actually seen, dozens of despairing women, and
perceived not only their heads and hands, but he
selected from the whole images only the smile
through tears and the convulsive hands, creating
from them an unforgettable filmic picture.

Another example. In that filmically outstanding
work, The Battleship " Potemkin" 32 Eisenstein shot
the massacre of the mob on the great flight of steps
in Odessa.33 The running of the mob down the steps
is rendered rather sparingly and is not especially
expressive, but the perambulator with the baby,
which, loosed from the grip of the shot mother, rolls
down the steps, is poignant in its tragic intensity and
strikes with the force of a blow. This perambulator
is a detail, just like the boy with the broken skull in
the same film. Analytically dissected, the mass of
people offered a wide field for the creative work of
the director, and the details correctly discovered
in editing resulted in episodes remarkable in their
expressive power.

Another example, simpler, but quite characteristic
for film-work : how should one show a motor-car
accident ? — a man being run over.

The real material is thoroughly abundant and
complex. There is the street, the motor-car, the
man crossing the street, the car running him down,
the startled chauffeur, the brakes, the man under
the wheels, the car carried forward by its impetus,
and, finally, the corpse. In actuality everything
occurs in unbroken sequence. How was this material

68 PUDOVKIN

worked out by an American director in the film
Daddy ? The separate pieces were assembled on the
screen in the following sequence :

1 . The street with cars in movement : a pedes-
trian crosses the street with his back to the camera ;
a passing motor-car hides him from view.

2. Very short flash : the face of the startled
chauffeur as he steps on the brake.

3. Equally short flash : the face of the victim,
his mouth open in a scream.

4. Taken from above, from the chauffeur's seat :
legs, glimpsed near the revolving wheels.

5. The sliding, braked wheels of the car.

6. The corpse by the stationary car.

The separate pieces are cut together in short, very
sharp rhythm. In order to represent the accident
on the screen, the director dissected analytically
the whole abundant scene, unbroken in actual
development, into component parts, into elements,
and selected from them — sparingly — only the six
essential. And these not only prove sufficient, but
render exhaustively the whole poignancy of the event
represented.

In the work of the mathematician there follows
after dissection into elements, after " differentiation,"
a combination of the discovered separate elements
to a whole — the so-called " integration."

In the work of the film director the process of
analysis, the dissection into elements, forms equally
only a point of departure, which has to be followed by

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 69

the assemblage of the whole from the discovered
parts. The finding of the elements, the details of the
action, implies only the completion of a preparatory
task. It must be remembered that from these parts
the complete work is finally to emerge, for, as said
above, the real motor-car accident might be dis-
sected by the onlooker into dozens, perhaps indeed
hundreds, of separate incidents. The director, how-
ever, chooses only six of them. He makes a selection,
and this selection is naturally conditioned in advance
by that filmic image of the accident — happening not
in reality but on the screen — which, of course, exists
in the head of the director long before its actual
appearance on the screen.

EDITING : THE LOGIC OF FILMIC ANALYSIS

The work of the director is characterised by
thinking in filmic pictures ; by imagining events
in that form in which, composed of pieces joined
together in a certain sequence, they will appear upon
the screen ; by considering real incidents only as
material from which to select separate characteristic
elements ; and by building a new filmic reality out
of them. Even when he has to do with real objects in
real surroundings he thinks only of their appearances
upon the screen. He never considers a real object in
the sense of its actual, proper nature, but considers
in it only those properties that can be carried over on
to celluloid. The film director looks only conditionally
upon his material, and this conditionally is extra-
ordinarily specific ; it arises from a whole series of

7o PUDOVKIN

properties peculiar only to the film. Even while
being shot, a film must be thought of already as an
editable sequence of separate pieces of celluloid. The
filmic form is never identical with the real appear-
ance, but only similar to it. When the director
establishes the content and sequence of the separate
elements that he is to combine later to filmic form, he
must calculate exactly not only the content, but the
length of each piece, or, in other words, he must
regard it as an element of filmic space and filmic
time. Let us suppose that before us lie, haphazard
on the table, those separate pieces of material that
were shot to represent that scene of the motor-car
accident described above. The essential thing is to
unite these pieces and to join them into one long
strip of film. Naturally we can join them in any
desired order. Let us imagine an intentionally
absurd order — for example, the following :

Beginning with the shot of the motor-car, we cut
into the middle of it the legs of the man run over,
then the man crossing the street, and finally the face
of the chauffeur. The result is a senseless medley of
pieces that produces in the spectator an impression
of chaos. And rational order will only be brought
into the alternation of pieces when they are at least
conditioned by that sequence with which a chance
observer would have been able to let his glance and
attention wander from object to object ; only then
will relation appear between the pieces, and their
combination, having received organic unity, be
effective on the screen. But it is not sufficient that

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 71

the pieces be united in definite order. Every event
takes place not only in space, but in time, and, just
as filmic space is created, as we saw, by the junction
in sequence of selected pieces, so must also be
created, moulded from the elements of real time, a
new filmic time. Let us suppose that, at the junction
of the pieces shot to represent the accident, no
thought has been given to their proportionate
lengths ; in result the editing is as follows :

1. Someone crosses the street.

2. Long : the face of the chauffeur at his brake.

3. Equally long : the screaming, wide-open
mouth of the victim.

4. The braked wheel and all the other pieces
shown similarly in very long strips.

A reel of film cut in this way would, even in correct
spacial sequence, appear absurd to the spectator.
The car would appear to travel slowly. The
inherently short process of running-over would be
disproportionately and incomprehensibly drawn out.
The event would disappear from the screen, leaving
only the projection of some chance material. Only
when the right length has been found for every
piece, building a rapid, almost convulsive rhythm of
picture alternation, analogous to the panic glance,
thrown this way and that, of an observer mastered
by horror, only then will the screen breathe a life of
its own imparted to it by the director. And this
is because the appearance created by the director is
enclosed, not only in filmic space, but also in filmic

72 PUDOVKIN

time, integrated from elements of real time picked
from actuality by the camera. Editing is the lan-
guage of the film director. Just as in living speech,
so, one may say, in editing : there is a word — the
piece of exposed film, the image ; a phrase — the
combination of these pieces. Only by his editing
methods can one judge a director's individuality.
Just as each writer has his own individual style, so
each film director has his own individual method of
representation. The editing junction of the pieces
in creatively discovered sequence is already a final
and completing process whose result is the attainment
of a final creation, the finished film. And it is with
this process in mind that the director must attend
also to the formation of these most elementary of
pieces (corresponding to the words in speech), from
which later the edited phrases — the incidents and
sequences — will be formed.

THE NECESSITY TO INTERFERE WITH MOVEMENT

The organising work of the director is not limited
to editing. Quite a number of film technicians
maintain that editing should be the only organising
medium of the film. They hold that the pieces can
be shot anyhow and anywhere, the images must only
be interesting ; afterwards, by simply joining them
according to their form and kind, a way will be
found to assemble them to a film.34 If any unifying
idea be taken as basis of the editing, the material
will no doubt be organised to a certain degree. A
whole series of shots taken at hazard in Moscow can

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 73

be joined to a whole, and all the separate shots will
be united by their place of taking — the town of
Moscow. The spacial grasp of the camera can be
narrowed to any desired degree ; a series of figures
and happenings can be taken on the market-place
and then finally in a room where a meeting is being
held, and in all these shots there will undoubtedly
be an organising embryo, but the question is how
deeply it will be developed. Such a collection of
shots can be compared to a newspaper, in which the
enormous abundance of news is divided into sections
and columns. The collection of news of all the
happenings in the world, given in the newspaper, is
organised and systematised. But this same news,
used in an article or a book, is organised in an even
higher degree. In the process of creating a film, the
work of organisation can and must extend more
widely and deeply than the mere establishment of a
hard and fast editing scheme of representation. The
separate pieces must be brought into organic relation
with each other, and for this purpose their content
must be considered in the shooting as a deepening,
as an advancement, of the whole editing construction
into the inner depth of each separate element of this
construction.

In considering certain of our examples, we have
had to deal with events and appearances that take
place before the camera independent of the will of
the director. The shooting of the demonstration was,
after all, only a selection of scenes of real actuality,
not created by the director, but picked out by him

74 PUDOVKIN

from the hurly-burly flow of life. But, in order to
produce an edited representation of a given action,
in order to take some piece of reality not specially
arranged by him in editable form, the director must
none the less, in one way or another, subordinate
this action to his will. Even in the shooting of this
demonstration we had, if we wished to render as vivid
as possible a scenic representation of it, to insinuate
ourselves with the camera into the crowd itself and
to get specially selected, typical persons to walk past
the lens just for the purpose of being taken, thus
arbitrarily interfering with the natural course of
events in order to make them serve for subsequent
filmic representation.35

If we use a more complex example we shall see
even more clearly that in order to shoot and filmically
represent any given action we must subject it to our
control — that is, it must be possible for us to bring
it to a standstill, to repeat it several times, each time
shooting a new detail, and so forth. Suppose we
wish editably to shoot the take-off of an aeroplane.
For its filmic representation we select the following
elements :

i. The pilot seats himself at the controls.

2. The hand of the pilot makes contact.

3. The mechanic swings the propeller.

4. The aeroplane rolls towards the camera.

5. The take-off itself shot from another position
so that the aeroplane travels away from the
camera as it leaves the ground.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 75

In order to shoot in editable form so simple an
action as a take-off, we must either stop after the
first movement of the aeroplane, and, having quickly
changed the position of the camera, placing it at
the tail-end of the machine, take the continuation
of the movement, or we must unavoidably repeat
the movement of the aeroplane twice ; once let it
travel towards the camera, and, the second time,
changing the set-up, away from the camera.

In both cases we must, in order to obtain the filmic
representation desired, interrupt the natural course
of the action, either by stopping or by repetition.
Almost invariably, in shooting a dynamically con-
tinuous action, we must, if we wish to obtain from
it the necessary details, either stop it by interruption
or repeat it several times. In such a way we must
always make our action dependent on the will of
the director, even in the shooting of the simplest
events that have nothing to do with " artistic "
direction. If we chose not to interfere with the
natural unfolding of the real event, then we should be
knowingly making the film impossible. We should
have left nothing but a slavish fixation of the event,
excluding all possibility of using such advantages
of filmic representation as the particularisation of
details and the elimination of superfluous transitory
points.

ORGANISATION OF THE MATERIAL TO BE SHOT

We now turn to a new side of directorial work —
namely, the methods of organisation of the material

76 PUDOVKIN

to be shot. Suppose the director to be concerned
only in making an industrial film (the work of a
factory, large workshop, or institution), a subject
which would appear to consist only in the fixation of
a number of processes not requiring his interference
as director, even so his work consists of something
more than the simple setting up of the camera and
shooting the machines and people at work from
various angles. In order to finish up with a really
filmically clear, editable representation, the director
is, with each separate process he shoots, inevitably
compelled to interrupt and interfere, guided by a
clear perception of that editing sequence in which
he will later project the pieces on the screen. The
director must introduce into his work the element
of direction, the element of a special organisation of
every action shot, the goal of which organisation is
the clearest and most exact possible recording of
characteristic details.

But when we go on to the shooting of so-called
" dramatic " subjects, then naturally the element of
direction, the element of organisation of the material
to be shot, becomes yet more important and indis-
pensable. In order to shoot all the essentials of the
filmic representation of the motor-car accident, the
director had many times to alter the position of his
camera ; he had to make the motor-car, the chauf-
feur, and the victim carry out their separate and
essential movements many times. In the direction
of a dramatic film very often an event shown on the
screen never had existence as a whole in reality. It

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 77

has been present only in the head, in the imagination
of the director, as he sought the necessary elements
for the later filmic form.

Here we come to the consideration of that which
must be shot in the limits of one uninterrupted piece
of celluloid, in the limits of one " shot," as the
technical term has it. Work in the limits of one shot
is naturally dependent on real space and real time ;
it is work with single elements of filmic space and
filmic time ; and is naturally directly conditioned by
the cutting later to be carried out. In order to
arouse in the spectator the necessary excited impres-
sion, the director, in editing the motor-car accident,
built up a disturbed rhythm, effected by the excep-
tionally short lengths of each single piece. But
remember, the desired material cannot be got by
merely cutting or abruptly shortening the pieces of
celluloid ; the necessary length into which the con-
tent of each piece had to fit must have been borne in
mind when it was shot. Let us suppose that it is our
task to shoot and edit a disturbed, excited scene,
that accordingly makes necessary quick change of
the short pieces. In shooting, however, the scenes
and parts of scenes are acted before the lens very
slowly and lethargically. Then, in selecting the
pieces and trying to edit them, we shall be faced
by an insuperable obstacle. Short pieces must be
used, but the action that takes place in the limits
of each separate piece proves to be so slow that,
to reach the necessary shortness of each piece, we
must cut, remove part of the action ; while, if

78 PUDOVKIN

we preserve the shots entire, the pieces prove
too long.

ARRANGING SET-UPS

Let us imagine that the camera, embracing in its
view-field a wide area, for example two persons
talking to one another, suddenly approaches one of
the characters and shows some detail important
to the development of the action and, at the
given moment, particularly characteristic. Then the
camera withdraws once more and the spectator sees
the further development of the scene in long-shot
as previously, both persons of the action being found
again in the field of view. It must be emphasised
that the spectator only derives an impression of
unbroken development of the action when the tran-
sition from long-shot to close-up (and reverse) is
associated with a movement common to the two
pieces. For example, if as detail concerned is
selected a hand drawing a revolver from a pocket
during the conversation, the scene must infallibly
be shot as follows : the first long-shot ends with a
movement of the hand of the actor reaching for
his pocket ; in the following close-up, showing the
hand alone, the movement begun is completed and
the hand gets out the revolver ; then back to the
long-shot, in which the hand with the revolver,
continuing the movement from the pocket begun
at the end of the close-up, aims the weapon at its
adversary. Such linkage by movement is the essen-
tial desideratum in that form of editing construction

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 79

in which the object taken is not removed from the
view-field at a change of set-up. Now, all three
pieces are shot separately (technically, more cor-
rectly, the whole of the long-shot is taken uninter-
ruptedly, from the hand-movement to the threat to
the adversary ; the close-up is taken separately).
It is naturally obvious that the close-up of the hand
of the actor, cut into the long-shot of the hand-
movement, will only be in the right place and only
blend to a unity if the movements of the actor's
hand at both moments of actual recording are in
exact external correspondence.36

The example given of the hand is extremely
elementary. The hand-movement is not compli-
cated and exact repetition not hard to achieve. But
the use of several set-ups in representing an actor's
work occurs very frequently in films. The move-
ments of the actors may be very complicated. And
in order to repeat in the close-up the movements
made in long-shot, to conform to the requirements
of great spacial and temporal exactness, both director
and actor must be technically highly practised. Yet
another property of films conditions exactness of
spacial directorial construction. In the preparation
of the material to be shot, in the construction of the
work before the camera, in the choice and fixation
of one or other movement form — or, in other words,
in the organisation of these tasks — not only are
bounds set to the director by the considerations of
his editing plan, but he is limited also by the specific
view-field of the camera itself, which forces all the

80 PUDOVKIN

material shot into the well-known rectangular con-
tour of the cinematograph screen. During his work
the film director does not see what takes place in
front of him with the eye of a normal spectator — he
looks at it with the eye of the lens.37 The normal
human gaze, widely embracing the area in front of
him, does not exist for the director. He sees and
constructs only in that conditioned section of space
that the camera can take in ; and yet more — this
space is, as it were, delimited by fast, fixed boun-
daries, and the very definite expression of these
boundaries themselves inevitably conditions an
inflexibility of composition in the spacial construc-
tion. It is obvious that an actor taken with a fairly
close approximation of the camera will, in making
a movement too wide in relation to the space he
occupies, simply disappear from the view-field of the
camera. If, for example, the actor sit with bended
head, and must raise his head, at a given approxi-
mation of the camera, an error on his part of only
an inch or two may leave only his chin visible to the
spectator, the rest of him being outside the limits of
the screen, or, technically, " cut off." This elemen-
tary example broadly emphasises once again the
necessity of an exact spacial calculation of every
movement the director shoots. Naturally this neces-
sity applies not only to close-ups. It may be a gross
mistake to take instead of the whole of somebody,
only two-thirds of him. To distribute the material
shot and its movements in the rectangle of the picture
in such a way that everything is clearly and sharply

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 81

apprehensible, to construct every composition in such
a way that the right-angled boundaries of the screen
do not disturb the composition found, but perfectly
contain it — that is the achievement towards which
film directors strive.

THE ORGANISATION OF CHANGE MATERIAL

Anyone who knows anything of painting knows
how the shape of the canvas on which the picture
is painted conditions the composition of the design.
The forms presented upon the canvas must be
organically enclosed in the boundaries of its space.
The same is true of the work of the film director.
No movement, no construction is thinkable for him
outside that piece of space, limited by a rectangular
contour and technically termed the " picture."38 It
is true that not always does a film director happen to
deal with subordination as direct as that of actors
receiving orders easily obeyed. He often encounters
happenings and processes that cannot be directly
subordinated to his will. For the director strives
ever to seize and use everything that the world around
can offer him. And far from everything in this world
obeys the shouting of a director. For instance, the
shooting of a sea, a waterfall, a storm, an avalanche :
all this is often brought into a film, and, forming a
firmly integral part of the subject, must consequently
be organised exactly as any other material prepared
for editing. Here the director is completely sub-
merged in a mass of chance happenings. Nothing
is directly obedient to his will. The movements

82 PUDOVKIN

before the camera develop in accordance with their
own laws. But the material required by the director
— that is, out of which the film can be made — must
none the less be organised. If the director finds
himself confronted with a phenomenon that is chance
in this sense, he cannot and must not give in to it,
for otherwise his work will change itself to a simple,
unregulated record. He must employ the adven-
titious phenomenon, and he does so by constantly
inventing a series of special methods. Here comes
to his help that possibility of disregarding the natural
development of the action in real time, of which I
have already spoken above. The director, alertly
watching with his camera, finds it possible to pick
out the material required and to unite the separate
shots on the screen, even though they may in reality
be separated from one another by wide temporal
intervals. Suppose he require for a film a small
stream, the bursting of a dam, and the flood conse-
quent on the catastrophe, he can shoot the stream
and the dam in autumn, the river when in spate in
spring, and secure the required impression by
combination of the two sections. Suppose the action
take place on the shores of a sea with a continuous
and tempestuous breaking of the surf, the director
can only take his shots when the waves are high
after a storm. But the shots, though spread out over
several months, will represent on the screen perhaps
only a day or an hour. Thus the director utilises
the (natural) repetition of a chance happening for
the required filmic representation.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 83

The recording of the animals that so often appear
in films affords a further instance of the use of special
methods in organising the adventitious. It is said
that an American director spent sixty working hours
and the corresponding amount of celluloid in order
to get on the screen the exact spring that he needed
of a kitten on a mouse. In another film a sea-lion
had to be recorded.39 The timorous animal swam
rapidly and irregularly around its pond. Of course,
the simple method would have been to take in the
whole pond, setting up the camera the required
distance away, and enabling the spectator to follow
the movements of the sea-lion just as a given observer
standing on the bank would have followed them.
The camera could not, and had not, to watch thus ;
it had before it a number of separate problems. The
camera had to observe how the beast glided swiftly
and dexterously over the surface of the water, and
it had to observe it from the best viewpoint. The
sea-lion had also to be seen from closer, making
close-ups necessary. The editing-plan, that preceded
the taking of the shots, was as follows :

1. The sea-lion swims in the pond towards the
bank — taken slightly from above, the better to
follow the movements of the beast in the water.

2. The sea-lion springs out on to the bank, and
then plunges back into the water.

3. It swims back to its den.

Three times had the viewpoint of the camera to be
altered. Once the photographing had to be from

84 PUDOVKIN

above, then the camera had to be placed so that the
beast, springing on to the bank, would happen to
be very near it, and the third time the sea-lion had
to be taken swimming away from the camera, so as
to show the speed of its movement. At the same
time, the whole material had to be shown in
connected form, so that, on the screen, in the
apprehension of the spectator, the three separate
shots of sea-lion should blend to the impression of
one continuous movement of the animal, despite the
fact that they were taken from different points.
One cannot command a beast to swim in a desired
direction or to approach a camera ; but at the same
time its movement was exactly prescribed in the
editing-plan, with which the construction of the
whole picture was bound up. When the sea-lion
was being taken from above, it swam — tempted by
the throwing of a fish — several times across the pond
until it came by chance into the view-field of the
camera in the way the director required. For the
close-up, the bait was thrown again and again until
the sea-lion leaped on to the right place on the bank
and made the necessary turn. Out of thirty takes
made, three were chosen, and these gave on the
screen the desired image of continuous movement.
This movement was not organised by direct pres-
cription of the work required, but attained by
approximate control of adventitious elements and
subsequent strict selection of the material gathered.
The chance is synonymous of real, unfalsified, unacted
life. In fifty per cent of his work the director

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 85

encounters it. Organisation and exact arrangement —
this is the basic slogan of film work, and it is chiefly
accomplished by the editing. The editing-plan can
exist before the moment of shooting, and then the
will of the director transforms and subdues reality
in order to assemble the work out of it. The editing-
plan can appear during the process of shooting, if
the director, come upon unforeseen material, use it
simultaneously orientating his work according to
that feasible future form that will compose, from the
pieces shot, a united filmic image.

So, for example, in The Battleship " Potemkin " the
brilliant shots taken in the mist by the cameraman
Tisse are cut beautifully into the film with striking
effect and organically weld themselves to its whole,
though nobody had foreseen the mist. Indeed, it
was the more impossible to foresee the mist because
mists had hitherto been regarded as a hindrance in
film-work.

But, in either case, the shooting must be related
organically to the editing-plan, and consequently
the paramount requirement of an exact spacial and
temporal calculation of the content of each piece
remains in force.

FILMIC FORM

When, instead of making a simple fixation of some
action that takes place in reality, we wish to render
it in its filmic form — that is to say, exchange its
actual, uninterrupted flow for an integration of
creatively selected elements — then we must bear

86 PUDOVKIN

invariably in mind those laws that relate the spec-
tator to the director who edits the shots. When
we discussed a haphazard, chaotic ordination of
shots, we laid it down that this would appear as a
meaningless disorder to the spectator. To impress
the spectator is correctly to discover the order and
rhythm of the combination.

How does one hit upon such an ordination ?
Certainly, generally speaking, this, like any other
creative artistic process, must be left ultimately to
the artist's intuition. None the less, at least the paths
that approximately determine the direction of this
work should be indicated. We have already made
comparison above between the lens and the eye of
an observer. This comparison can be carried very
far. The director, as he determines the position of
the camera in shooting and prescribes the length of
each separate shot, can, in fact, be compared to an
observer who turns his glance from one element of
the action to another, so long as this observer is not
apathetic in respect to his emotional state. The more
deeply he is excited by the scene before him, the
more rapidly and suddenly (staccato) his attention
springs from one point to another. (The example of
the motor-car accident.) The more disinterestedly
and phlegmatically he observes the action, the
calmer and slower will be the changes of his points
of attention, and consequently the changes of set-up
of the camera. The emotion can unquestionably be
communicated by the specific rhythm of the editing.
Griffith, the American, richly uses this method in

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 87

the greater part of his films. Here belongs also that
characteristic directorial method of forcing the spec-
tator to insinuate himself into the skin of the actor,
and letting him see with the latter's eyes. Very
often after the face of the hero looking at something,
the object looked at is shown from his viewpoint.
The greater part of the methods of editing a film
yet known to us can be linked to this regarding
of the camera as observer. The considerations
that determine changes of glance coincide almost
exactly with those that govern correct editing
construction.

But it cannot be claimed that this comparison is
exhaustive. The construction of filmic form in
editing can be carried out in several ways. For,
finally, it is the editing itself that contains the culmi-
nation of the creative work of the film director.
Indeed, it is in the direct discovery of methods for
use in the editing of the material filmed that the film
will gain for itself a worthy place among the other
great arts. Film-art is yet inks period of birth. Such
methods as approximation, comparison, pattern, and
so forth, that have already been long an organic
preparatory part of the existing arts, are only now
being tested fumblingly in the film. I cannot here
refrain from the opportunity of instancing a brilliant
example of an unquestionably new editing method
that Eisenstein used in The Battleship " Potemkin"

The fourth reel ends with the firing of a gun, on
board the rebel battleship, at the Odessa Theatre.
This seemingly simple incident is handled in an

88 PUDOVKIN

extraordinarily interesting way by Eisenstein. The
editing is as follows :

i. Title:
" And the rebel battleship answered the brutality of the
tyrant with a shell upon the town.'9

2. A slowly and deliberately turning gun-turret
is shown.

3. Title :

" Objective — the Odessa Theatre99

4. Marble group at the top of the theatre
building.

5. Title :

" On the General9 s Headquarters99

6. Shot from the gun.

7. In two very short shots the marble figure of
Cupid is shown above the gates of a building.

8. A mighty explosion ; the gates totter.

9. Three short shots, a stone lion sleeping, a
stone lion with open eyes, and a rampant stone
lion.

10. A new explosion, shattering the gates.

This is an editing construction that is reproduced
in words only with difficulty, but that is almost
shatteringly effective on the screen. The director has
here employed a daring form of editing. In his film
a stone lion rises to its feet and roars. This image
has hitherto been thinkable only in literature, and
its appearance on the screen is an undoubted and

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 89

thoroughly promising innovation. It is interesting
to observe that in this short length of film all the
characteristic elements peculiar and specific to filmic
representation are united. The battleship was taken
in Odessa, the various stone lions in the Crimea,40
and the gates, I believe, in Moscow. The elements
are picked out and welded into one united filmic
space. From different, immovable stone lions has
arisen in the film the non-existent movement of a
filmic lion springing to its feet. Simultaneously with
this movement has appeared a time non-existent in
reality, inseparably bound up with each movement.
The rebel battleship is concentrated to a single gun-
muzzle, and the General's headquarters stare at the
spectator in the shape of a single marble group on
the summit of their roof. The struggle between the
enemies not only loses nothing thereby, but gains in
clearness and sharpness. Naturally this example of
the lions instanced here cannot be brought into
relation with the use of the camera as observer. It
is an exceptional example, offering undoubted possi-
bilities in the future for the creative work of the film
director. Here the film passes from naturalism, which
in a certain degree was proper to it, to free, symbolic
representation, independent of the requirements of
elementary probability.

THE TECHNIQUE OF DIRECTORIAL WORK

We have already laid down, as the characteristic
property of filmic representation, the striving of the
camera to penetrate as deeply as possible into the

go PUDOVKIN

details of the event being represented, to approach
as nearly as possible to the object under observation,
and to pick out only that which can be seen with
a glance, intensified to eliminate the general and
superficial. Equally characteristic is its externally
exhaustive embrace of the events it handles. One
might say that the film, as it were, strives to force the
spectator to transcend the limits of normal human
apprehension. On the one hand, it allows this appre-
hension to be sharpened by incredible attentiveness
of observation, in concentrating entirely on • the
smallest details. At the same time, it allows events
in Moscow and nearly related events in America to
be embraced in a nearly simultaneous comprehension.
Concentration on details and wide embrace of the
whole include an extraordinary mass of material.
Thus the director is faced with the task of organising
and carefully working out a great number of separate
tasks, according to a definite plan previously devised
by him. As instance : in every, even in an average,
film the number of persons in the action is seldom
less than several dozen, and each of these persons
— even those shown only shortly — is organically
related to the film as a whole : the performance of
each of these persons must be carefully ordered and
thought out, exactly as carefully as any shot from
the part of a principal. A film is only really signifi-
cant when every one of its elements is firmly welded
to a whole. And this will only be the case when
every element of the task is carefully mastered. When
one calculates that in a film of about 4,000 feet there

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 91

are about five hundred pieces, then one perceives
that there are five hundred separate but interlocked
groups of problems to be solved, carefully and atten-
tively, by the director. When one considers yet
again that work on a film is always and inevitably
limited by a given maximal time duration, then one
sees that the director is so overloaded with work that
successful carrying through of the film with direction
from one man alone is almost impossible. It is
therefore quite easily comprehensible that all notable
directors seek to have their work carried out in a
departmentalised manner. The whole work of
producing a film disintegrates into a series of separate
and, at the same time, firmly interrelated sections.
Even if one only enumerates the basic stages super-
ficially, one gets, none the less, a very impressive
list. As follows :

1. The scenario, and its contained treatment.

2. The preparation of the shooting-script,
determination of the editing construction.

3. The selection of actors.

4. The building of sets and the selection of
exteriors.

5. The direction and taking of the separate
elements into which incidents are divided for
editing, the shooting-script script-scenes.

6. Laboratory work on the material shot.

7. The editing (the cutting).

The director, as the single organising control that
guides the assembling of the film from beginning to

92 PUDOVKIN

end, must naturally make his influence felt in each
of these separate sections. If a hiatus, a mishap,
creep into the work of but one of the stages listed,
the whole film — the result of the director's collective
creation — will inevitably suffer, equally whether it
be a matter of a badly chosen actor, of an uneven
piece of continuity in the treatment, or of a badly
developed piece of negative. Thus it is obvious that
the director must be the central organiser of a group
of colleagues whose efforts are directed upon the goal
mapped out by him.

Collective work on a film is not just a concession
to current practice, but a necessity that follows from
the characteristic basic peculiarities of films. The
American director is surrounded during his direc-
torial work by a whole staff of colleagues, each of
whom fulfils a sharply defined and delimited func-
tion. A series of assistants, each provided by the
director with a task in which the latter's idea is clearly
defined, works simultaneously on the many incidents
and parts of incidents. After having been checked
and confirmed by the director, these incidents are
shot and added to the mass of material being pre-
pared for the assembling of the film. The resolution
of certain problems — such, for instance, as the
organised shooting of crowd-scenes including some-
times as many as a thousand persons — shows quite
clearly that the director's work cannot attain a
proper result unless he has a sufficiently extensive
staff of colleagues at his disposal. In fine, a director
working with a thousand extras exactly resembles a

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 93

commander-in-chief. He gives battle to the indif-
ference of the spectator ; it is his task to conquer
it by means of an expressive construction of the
movement of the masses he guides ; and, like a
commander-in-chief, he must have a sufficient
number of officers at his disposal to be able to sway
the crowd according to his will. We have said
already that, in order to attain a unified creation,
a complete film, the director must lead constant
through all the numerous stages of the work a
unifying, organising line created by him. We shall
now examine these stages one by one, in order to
be able to represent to ourselves yet more clearly the
nature of the work of film direction.

Part II
THE DIRECTOR AND THE SCENARIO

THE DIRECTOR AND THE SCENARIST

In production, affairs usually take the following
course : a scenario is received, handed over to
the director, and he submits it to a so-called
directorial treatment — that is to say, he works over
the entire material submitted him by the scenarist
according to his own individuality ; he expresses
the thoughts offered him in his own filmic speech
— in the language of separate images, separate
elements, shots, that follow one another in a certain
sequence he establishes.

94 PUDOVKIN

In short, if a film be compared with the scenario
lying basic to it, it is possible to distinguish the
theme, the subject treatment of the theme, and,
finally, that imaginary filmic formation of the treat-
ment that is worked out by the director in the
process of production. Needless to say, these three
stages of work must be directly and organically
interdependent. None the less, it is evident that the
work of the scenarist extends only up to a certain
point, after which the share of the director begins.
There is no art-form in which a sharp division
between two stages of work is thinkable. One cannot
continue a work from some point in its course, and
not have been linked with it from its beginning.
Therefore, as a result of the necessity for unification
of two stages, the preliminary work of the scenarist
and the subsequent directorial work, the following
is inevitable : either the director must be directly
associated with the work of the scenarist from the
beginning, or, if this be impossible for some reason
or other, he must inevitably go through the scenario,
removing anything foreign to him, maybe altering
separate parts and sequences, maybe the entire
subject-construction. The director is ever faced with
the task of creating the film from a series of plastically
expressive images. In the ability to find such plastic
images, in the faculty of creating from separate shots,
by editing, clear, expressive " phrases," and con-
necting these phrases into vividly impressive periods,
and from these periods constructing a film — in this
consists the art of the director. Not always can the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 95

scenarist, especially when he has not a clearly filmi-
cally thinking brain and is thus in some degree
himself a director, provide in ready form the plastic
material required by the director. Usually it is
otherwise, the scenarist gives the director the idea,
as such— the detached content of the image, and not
its concrete form. But in a collaboration of this kind
the welding together of the two colleagues, the
scenarist and the director, is certainly of tremendous
importance. It is easy to put forward ideas that will
wake no echo in the director and must remain a
pure abstraction without concrete form. Even the
theme itself of the scenario — in other words, its basis
— must inevitably be selected and established in
contact with the director. The theme conditions the
action, colours it, and thus, of course, inevitably
colours that plastic content the expression of which
is the chief substance of the director's task. Only
if the theme be organically comprehended by the
director will he be able to subdue it to the unifying
outline of the form he is creating.

Pursuing further, we come to the action. The
action outlines a number of situations for the
characters, their relations to one another, and, not
least, their encounters. It prescribes in its develop-
ment a whole number of events that already have,
in some sort, feelable form. The action cannot be
thought of without already some plastically expres-
sive form. In most cases it is difficult for a scenarist,
having graduated from the literary field, to steer
his course by the conditions of externally expressive

96 PUDOVKIN

form. Already in planning the action the basic
incidents that are to determine its shape must
infallibly be mapped out. Here comes yet more
clearly to light the inevitable dependence on the
later directorial work. Even such a thing as the
characteristics of a person of the action will be
meaningless if not shown in a series of plastically
effective movements or situations.

THE ENVIRONMENT OF THE FILM

To continue. All the action of any scenario is
immersed in some environment that provides, as it
were, the general colour of the film. This environ-
ment may, for example, be a special mode of life.
By more detailed examination, one may even regard
as the environment some separate peculiarity, some
special essential trait of the given mode of life
selected. This environment, this colour, cannot, and
must not, be rendered by one explanatory scene or
a title ; it must constantly pervade the whole film,
or its appropriate part, from beginning to end. As
I have said, the action must be immersed in this
background. A whole series of the best films of
recent times has shown that this emphasis by means
of an environment in which the action is immersed
is quite easily effected in cinematography. The
film Tot' able David shows us this vividly. It is also
interesting that the effecting of the unity of this
colour of a film is based upon the scarcely communi-
cable ability to saturate the film with numerous fine
and correctly observed details. Naturally it is not

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 97

possible to require of the scenarist that he shall
discover all these details and fix them in writing.
The best that he can do is to find their necessary
abstract formulation, and it is the affair of the
director to absorb this formulation and give it the
necessary plastic shape. Remarks by the scenarist
such as, perhaps, " There was an insufferable smell
in the room " or " Many factory-sirens vibrated and
sang through the heavy, oil-permeated atmosphere "
are not in any sense forbidden. They indicate cor-
rectly the relation between the ideas of the scenarist
and the future plastic shaping by the director. It
may already now be said with a fair degree of
certainty that the most immediate task next awaiting
the director is that very solution by filmic methods
of the descriptive problems mentioned. The first
experiments were carried out by the Americans in
showing a landscape of symbolic character at the
beginning of a film. ToVable David began with the
picture of a village taken through a cherry-tree in
flower. The foaming, tempestuous sea symbolised
the leit-motif of the film The Remnants of a Wreck.

A wonderful example, affording unquestionably
an achievement of this kind, are the pictures of the
misty dawn rising over the corpse of the murdered
sailor in The Battleship " Potemkin" The solution of
these problems — the depiction of the environment —
is an undoubted and important part of the work on
the scenario. And this work naturally cannot be
carried out without direct participation by the
director. Even a simple landscape — a piece of nature

98 PUDOVKIN

so often encountered in films — must, by some inner
guiding line, be bound up with the developing
action.

I repeat that the film is exceptionally economical
and precise in its work. There is, and must be, in
it no superfluous element. There is no such thing
as a neutral background, and every factor must be
collected and directed upon the single aim of solving
the given problems. For every action, in so far as
it takes place in the real world, is always involved
in general conditions — that is, the nature of the
environment.

The action of the scenes may take place by day or
by night. Film directors have long been familiar
with this point, and the effort to render night effects
is to this day an interesting problem for film directors.
One can go further. The American, Griffith, suc-
ceeded in the film America in obtaining, with
marvellous tenderness and justness, graduations of
twilight and morning. The director has a mass of
material at his disposal for this kind of work. The
film is interesting, as said before, not only in that
it is able to concentrate on details, but also in its
ability to weld to a unity numerous materials,
deriving from widely embraced sources.

As example, this same morning light : To gain
this effect, the director can use not only the growing
light of sunrise, but also numerous correctly selected,
characteristic processes that infallibly relate them-
selves with approaching dawn in the apprehension
of the spectator. The light of lamp-posts growing

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 99

paler against the lightening sky, the silhouettes of
scarcely visible buildings, the tops of trees tenderly
touched with the light of the not yet ascended sun,
awakening birds, crowing cocks, the early morning
mist, the dew — all this can be employed by the
director, shot, and in editing built to a harmonious
whole.

In one film an interesting method was used of
representing the filmic image of a dawn. In order
to embrace in the editing construction the feeling of
growing and ever wider expanding light, the separate
shots follow one another in such wise that at the
beginning, when it is still dark, only details can be
seen upon the screen. The camera took only close-
ups, as if, like the eye of man in the surrounding
dark, it saw only what was near to it. With the
increase of the light the camera became ever more
and more distant from the object shot. Simul-
taneously with the broadening of the light, broader
and broader became the view-field embraced by the
lens. From the close-ups in darkness the director
changed to ever more distant long-shots, as if he
sought directly to render the increasing light, per-
vading everything widely and more widely. It is
notable that here is employed a pure technical pos-
sibility, peculiar only to the film, of communicating
a very subtle feeling.

It is clear that work on the solution of problems of
this kind is bound up so closely with the knowledge
of film technique, so organically with the pure
directorial work of analysis, selection of the material,

ioo PUDOVKIN

and its unification in creative editing, that such
problems cannot, independently of the director, be
resolved for him by the scenarist alone. At the same
time, it is, as already mentioned, absolutely essential
to give the expression of this environment in which
the action of every film is immersed, and accordingly,
in the creation of the scenario, it is indispensable for
the director to collaborate in the work.

THE CHARACTERS IN THE ENVIRONMENT

I should like to note that in the work of one of
the strongest directors of the present day, David
Griffith, in almost every one of his films, and indeed
especially in* those in which he has reached the
maximum expression and power, it is almost
invariably the case that the action of the scenario
develops among characters blended directly with
that which takes place in the surrounding world.

The stormy finale of the Griffith film is so con-
structed as to strengthen for the spectator the conflict
and the struggle of the heroes to an unimagined
degree, thanks to the fact that the director introduces
into the action, gale, storm, breaking ice, rivers in
spate, a gigantic roaring waterfall. When Lilian
Gish, in Way Down East, runs broken from the house,
her happiness in ruins, and the faithful Barthelmess
rushes after her to bring her back to life, the whole
pursuit of love behind despair, developing in the
furious tempo of the action, takes place in a fearful
snowstorm ; and at the final climax, Griffith forces
the spectator himself to feel despair, when a rotating

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 101

block of ice, on it cowering the figure of a woman,
approaches the precipice of a gigantic waterfall,
itself conveying the impression of inescapable and
hopeless ruin.

First the snowstorm, then the foaming, swirling
river in thaw, packed with ice-blocks that rage yet
wilder than the storm, and finally the mighty water-
fall, conveying the impression of death itself. In this
sequence of events is repeated, on large scale as it
were, the same line of that increasing despair —
despair striving to make an end, for death, that has
irresistibly gripped the chief character. This har-
mony— the storm in the human heart and the storm
in the frenzy of nature — is one of the most powerful
achievements of the American genius.41 This example
shows particularly clearly how far-reaching and deep
must be that connection, between the content of the
scenario and the director's general treatment, that
adds strength and unity to his work. The director
not only transfers the separate scenes suggested by
the scenarist each into movement and form, he has
also to absorb the scenario in its entirety, from the
theme to the final form of the action, and perceive
and feel each scene as an irremovable, component
part of the unified structure. And this can only be
the case if he be organically involved in the work
on the scenario from beginning to end.

When the work on the general construction has
been finished, the theme moulded to a subject, the
separate scenes in which the action is realised laid
down, then only do we come to the period of the

102 PUDOVKIN

hardest work on the treatment of the scenario, that
stage of work when, already concrete and percep-
tible, that filmic form of the picture that will result
can be foreseen ; do we come to the period of the
planning out of the editing scheme for the shots, of
the discovery of those component parts from which
the separate images will later be assembled.

To bring a waterfall into the action does not
necessarily mean to create it on the screen. Let us
remember what we said regarding the creation of a
filmic image that becomes vivid and effective only
when the necessary details are correctly found. We
come to the stage of utilising the pieces of real space
and real time for the future creation of filmic space
and filmic time. If it may be said at the beginning
of the process that the scenarist guides the work —
and that the director has only to pay attention so
as properly to apprehend it organically, and so as,
not only to keep contact with it at every given
moment, but to be constantly welded to it — now
comes a change. The guide of the work is now the
director, equipped with that knowledge of technique
and that specific talent that enables him to find the
correct and vivid images expressing the quintessential
element of each given idea. The director organises
each separate incident, analysing it, disintegrating
it into elements, and simultaneously thinking of the
connection of these elements in editing. It is here
of special interest to note that the scenarist at this
later stage, just as the director in the early stages,
must not be divorced from the work. His task it is

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 103

to supervise the resolution to editable shape of every
separate problem, thinking at every instant of the
basic theme — sometimes completely abstract, yet
current in every separate problem.

Only by means of a close collaboration can a
correct and valuable result be attained. Naturally
one might postulate as the ideal arrangement the
incarnation of scenarist and director in one person.
But I have already spoken of the unusual scope and
complexity of film creation, that prevents any possi-
bility of its mastery by one person. Collectivism is
indispensable in the film, but the collaborators must
be blended with one another to an exceptionally
close degree.

THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE RHYTHM OF THE FILM

The editing treatment of the scenario consists not
only in the determination of the separate incidents,
scenes, objects that are to be shot, but also in the
arrangement of the sequence in which they are to
be shown. I have already said that in the deter-
mination of this sequence one must not only have
in mind the plastic content, but also the length of
each separate piece of celluloid — that is to say, the
rhythm with which the pieces are to be joined must
be considered. This rhythm is the means of emo-
tionally influencing the spectator. By this rhythm
the director is equally in the position to excite or to
calm the spectator. An error of rhythm can reduce
the impression of the whole scene shown to zero, but
equally can rhythm, fortunately found, raise the

io4 PUDOVKIN

impression of a scene to an infinite degree, though it
may contain in its separate, imagined, visual material
nothing especial.42 The rhythmic treatment of the
film-scenario is not limited to the treatment of the
separate incidents, to the finding of the necessary
images comprising them. One must remember that
the film is divided into separate shots, that these are
joined together to form incidents, the incidents to
sequences, these last to reels, and the reels together
form the whole film. Wherever there is division,
wherever there is an element of succession of pieces,
be they separate pieces of celluloid or separate parts
of the action — there everywhere the rhythmic ele-
ment must be considered, not indeed because
" rhythm " is a modern catchword, but because
rhythm, guided by the will of the director, can and
must be a powerful and secure instrument of effect.
Remember, for instance, how exhausting, and how
extinguishing in its effect, was the badly created,
constantly confused rhythm of that big film, The Ray ,
of Death ; and, on the other hand, how clever was
the distribution of material in Tollable David, in
which the alternation of quiet and tense sections kept
the spectator fresh and enabled him to appreciate
the violent finale. The editable preparation of the
scenario — in which not only the exact plastic content
of each separate little piece is taken into considera-
tion, but also the position in rhythmic sequence of
its length when the pieces are joined to incidents, the
incidents to sequences and so forth — the establish-
ment of this position, which is already completely

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 105

decisive for the final form that the film projected on
the screen will take, is the last stage of the work
of the director on the scenario. Now is the moment
come at which new members of the collective team
enter the work of creating the film — in fact, those
who are concerned with real men and objects, with
the movements and backgrounds in which they are
locked. The director now has to prepare the material
in order to record it on the film.

Part III
THE DIRECTOR AND THE ACTOR

TWO KINDS OF PRODUCTION

In accordance with their acting, films can roughly
be divided into two kinds. In the first group are
included such productions as are based on one
particular actor — the " star," as he is called in
America. The scenario is written especially for the
actor. The entire work of the director resolves itself
to the presentation to the spectator, once again in
new surroundings and with a new supporting cast,
of some well-known and favourite figure. Thus are
produced the films of Chaplin, Fairbanks, Pickford,
and Lloyd. To the second group belong those films
that are underlain by some definite idea or thought.
These scenarios are not written for an actor, but
actors must be found for their realisation when
written. Thus works David Griffith. It is not,

106 PUDOVKIN

therefore, remarkable that in several of his pictures
Griffith rejects such brilliant names as Pickford,
Mae Marsh, and others, a whole series of heroes and
heroines whom, having used them for one or two
films, he gives up to other hands. To that extent to
which a film is basically inspired by some thought,
by some definite idea — and not merely by the display
of clever technique or a pretty face — the relationship
between the actor and the material of the film
receives a special and specific character, proper only
to the film.

THE FILM ACTOR AND THE FILM TYPE

In order to create a required appearance, the
stage actor tries to find and create the necessary
make-up, altering his face. If he has to take the
part of a strong man in the play, he binds muscles
of wadding on his arms. Suppose, for example, it
were proposed to him to play Samson, he would not
be ashamed of erecting pasteboard pillars on the set,
to overthrow them later with one push of his shoulder.
Such deceit in properties, equally with make-up
drawn upon the face, is unthinkable in films. A
made-up, property human being in a real environ-
ment, among real trees, near real stones and real
water, under a real sky, is as incongruous and
inacceptable as a living horse on a stage filled with
pasteboard.43 The conditionality of the film is not a
property conditionality : it changes not matter, but
only time and space. For this reason one cannot
build up a required type artificially for the screen ;

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 107

one must discover him. That is why even in those
productions the pivot of which is the inevitable and
necessary " star," none the less the supporting actors
for the second and third parts are always sought by
the director from among many. The work of finding
the necessary actors, the selection of persons with
vividly expressive externalities conforming to the
requirements made by the scenario is one of the
hardest tasks of the director. It must be remembered
that, as I have already said, one cannot " play a
part " on the film ; one must possess a sum of real
qualities, externally clearly expressed, in order to
attain a given effect on the spectator. It is therefore
easy to understand why, in film production, a man,
passing by chance on the street, who has never had
any idea of being an actor, is often brought in,
only because he happens to be a vividly externally
expressive type, and, moreover, the one desired by
the director. In order to make concretely clear this
inevitable necessity to use, as acting material, persons
possessing in reality the properties of the image
required, I shall instance at random the following
example.

Let us suppose that we require for a production
an old man. In the Theatre the problem would be
perfectly simple. A comparatively young actor
could paint wrinkles on his face, and so make on the
spectator, from the stage, the external impression of
an old man. In the film this is unthinkable. Why ?
Just because a real, living wrinkle is a deepening, a
groove in the face. And when an old man with a

108 PUDOVKIN

real wrinkle turns his head, light plays on this
wrinkle. A real wrinkle is not only a dark stripe,
it is a shadow from the groove, and a different
position of the face in relation to light will always
give a different pattern of light and shade. The
living wrinkle lives by means of movement in light.
But if we paint a black stripe on a smooth skin, then
on the screen the face in movement will never show
the living groove played on by the light, but only a
stripe painted in black paint. It will be especially
incongruous in cases of close approximation of the
lens — that is, in close-ups.

In the Theatre, make-up of this kind is possible
because the light on the stage is conditionally
constant and throws no shadows.

By this example it may in some wise be judged to
what degree the actor we seek must resemble his
prescribed appearance in the scenario. It may be
said, in fine, that in most cases the film actor plays
himself, and the work of the director consists not in
compelling him to create something that is not in him,
but in showing, as expressively and vividly as possible,
what is in him, by using his real characteristics.

PLANNING THE ACTING OF THE FILM-TYPE

Where the acting material is assembled in this way,
the possibility of using a stock company, as in the
Theatre, is naturally almost excluded.44 In almost
every film the director is compelled to work with
ever new human material, often entirely untrained.
But at the same time the work of the person being

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 109

photographed must be strictly subjected to a whole
series of conditions dictated by the film. I have
already said that each piece shot must be exactly
organised in space and time. The work of the actor
being shot, as much as everything being shot, must
be exactly considered. Remember that we have
discussed the process of taking editable shots,
whereby the same movements have to be repeated
several times with great exactitude, in order to
make it possible for the director to form into a single
whole the incidents later composed by the junction
of separate pieces. In order to work exactly one
must know how, one must learn how, or at least be
able to remember by heart. For the work of the
film actor, or, if you prefer it, his acting, is deprived
of that unbroken quality proper to the work of his
colleague on the stage. The film image of the actor
is composed from dozens and hundreds of separate,
disintegrated pieces in such a way that sometimes
he works at the beginning on something that will
later form a part of the end. The film actor is
deprived of a consciousness of the uninterrupted
development of the action, in his work. The
organic connection between the consecutive parts
of his work, as result of which the distinct whole
image is created, is not for him. The whole image
of the actor is only to be conceived as a future
appearance on the screen, subsequent to the editing
of the director ; that which the actor performs in
front of the lens in each given piece is only raw
material, and it is necessary to be endowed with

no PUDOVKIN

special, specific, filmic powers in order to imagine
to oneself the whole edited image, meticulously
composed of separate pieces picked sometimes from
the beginning, sometimes from the middle. It is
therefore understandable why it was first in films
that there appeared exact directorial construction
of the actor's work.45 In most cases only the
director knows the shooting-script so thoroughly
and so well as to be able clearly to imagine it to
himself in that shape in which it will later be
transposed upon the screen, and therefore only he
can imagine to himself each given part, each given
image in its editing construction. If an actor, even
a very talented one, allow himself to be inspired by
a given separate scene, he will never be able, of
himself, so to limit his work as to be able to give a
part of his acting of exactly that length and that
content later required by the editing. This will
only be possible when the actor has entered as
deeply and organically into the work of building
the film creation as the director producing it.
There are schools that maintain that the play of the
actor must be ordered by the director down to its
least details ; down to the finest movements of the
fingers, of the eyebrows, of the eyelashes, everything
must be exactly calculated by the director, in-
structed by him, and recorded on the film. This
school represents an undoubted exaggeration that
results in unnecessary mechanicalisation ; it is,
none the less, not to be gainsaid that the free per-
formance of the actor must be enclosed in a

ON FILM TECHNIQUE in

frame-work of the severest directorial control. It is
interesting that even such a director as Griffith —
who is distinguished by a special " psychologicality "
that should, strictly speaking, preclude the possi-
bility of hard and fast construction — none the less
does undoubtedly plastically " create " his actor.
Griffith has a peculiar feminine type of his own,
pathetically helpless and heroic at the same time.
It is interesting to follow how, in various of his films,
various women express the same emotional states by
the same external means. Remember how Mae
Marsh weeps in the trial in Intolerance, how the
heroine in America sobs over her dying brother, and
how Lilian Gish sobs in the Orphans of the Storm as
she tells of her sister. There is the same heart-
rending face, the same streaming tears, and the
helpless, trembling attempt to show a smile behind
tears. The similarity of method of many American
actors who have worked under control of one and
the same director shows markedly how far-reaching
is the directorial construction of the actor's work.

THE " ENSEMBLE "

In the Theatre there exists a concept "ensemble "
the concept implying that general composition which
embraces the work of all the actors collaborating in
the play. The ensemble undoubtedly exists also in
the film, and the same may be said about it as has
been said about the edited image of the actor. The
fact is that the film actor is deprived of the possibility
of himself directly appreciating this ensemble. Very

ii2 PUDOVKIN

often an actor, from beginning to end of his part
in front of the camera, does not once see the per-
formance of the actor opposite him in the film, and
is shot separately. None the less, however, when
the film is subsequently joined, the scenes of this
actor will appear directly connected with those of
the other, whom he has never seen. The conscious-
ness of the ensemble, the relationship between the
work of the separate characters, consequently
becomes once again a task of the director. Only
he, imagining to himself the film in its edited form,
already projected upon the screen, already joined
from its separately shot pieces — only he can appre-
ciate this ensemble, and direct and construct the
actor's work in conformity with its requirements.
The question of the bounds of the influence the
director should exert on the work of the actors is
a question that is still open. Exact mechanical
obedience to a plan provided by the director has
undoubtedly no future. But also a wavering free
improvisation by the actor according to general
suggestions from the director — a method hitherto
a characteristic of most Soviet directors — is definitely
inadmissible. Only one thing is still undoubted,
that the whole image of the actor will only result
when the separately shot pictures are united one
to the other in editing, and the work of the actor
in each separate shot has been firmly and organi-
cally linked to the clear understanding of the
future whole. If such an understanding is present
to the actor he can work freely, but, if not, then only

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 113

the exact instructions of the director, the future creator
of the editing, can correctly construct the acting work.
Special difficulties are encountered by the director
with casually collected human material, but this
casual material is, as we have said, nearly inevitable
in every film ; and, on the other hand, this material
is of exceptional interest. An average film lasts an
hour and a half. In this hour and a half there pass
before the spectator sometimes dozens of faces that
he may remember, surrounding the heroes of the
film, and these faces must be especially carefully
selected and shown. Often the entire expression
and value of an incident, though it may centre round
the hero, depends from these characters of second
rank who surround him. These characters may be
shown to the spectator for no more than six or seven
seconds. Therefore they must impress him clearly
and vividly. Remember the example of the gang
of blackguards in ToVable David, or of the two old
men in The Isle of Lost Ships. Each face impresses
as firmly and vividly as would a separate, clever
characterisation by a talented writer. To find a
person such that the spectator, after seeing him for
six seconds, shall say of him, " That man is a rogue,
or good-natured, or a fool " — this is the task that
presents itself to the director in the selection of his
human material.

EXPRESSIVE MOVEMENT

When the persons are selected, when the director
begins to shoot their work, they provide him with a

ii4 PUDOVKIN

new problem : the actor must move in front of the
camera, and his movements must be expressive.
The concept " an expressive movement " is not so
simple as it appears at first sight. First of all, it is
not identical with that everyday movement, that
customary behaviour proper to an average man in
his real surroundings. A man not only has gestures,
but words also are at his disposal. Sometimes the
word accompanies the gesture and sometimes,
reversed, the gesture aids the word. In the Theatre
both are feasible. That is why an actor with deeply
ingrained theatrical training conforms with difficulty
to the standards of the screen. In The Postmaster y
Moskvin — an actor of undoubted exceptionally big
filmic possibilities — none the less tires one
unpleasantly with his ever-moving mouth and
with petty movements beating time to the rhythm
of the unspoken words. Gesture-movement accom-
panying speech is unthinkable on the film. Losing
its correspondence with the sounds that the spectator
does not hear, it degenerates to a senseless plastic
muttering. The director in work with an actor
must so construct the performance of the latter that
the significant point shall lie always in the move-
ment, and the word accompany it only when
required. In a pathetic scene, when he learns from
the godmother that the hussar officer has eloped
with Dunia, Moskvin speaks a great deal and
obviously, while at the same time, automatically
and quite naturally, like a man accustomed to
spoken business, he accompanies every word with

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 115

one and the same repeated movement of the hand.
During the shooting, when the words were audible,
the scene was effective, and even very effective ;
but on the screen it resulted as a painful and often
ridiculous shuffling about on one spot. The idea
that the film actor should express in gesture that
which the ordinary man says in words is basically
false. In creating the picture the director and actor
use only those moments when the word is superfluous,
when the substance of the action develops in silence,
when the word may accompany the gesture, but does
not give birth to it.46

EXPRESSIVE OBJECTS

That is why the inanimate object has such
enormous importance on the films. An object is
already an expressive thing in itself, in so far as the
spectator always associates with it a number of
images. A revolver is a silent threat, a flying
racing-car is a pledge of rescue or of help arriving
in time. The performance of an actor linked with
an object and built upon it will always be one of
the most powerful methods of filmic construction.
It is, as it were, a filmic monologue without words.
An object, linked to an actor, can bring shades of
his state of emotion to external expression so subtly
and deeply as no gesture or mimicry could ever
express them conditionally. In The Battleship
"Potemkin " the battleship itself is an image so
powerfully and clearly shown that the men on board
are resolved into it, organically blended with it.

n6 PUDOVKIN

The shooting down of the crowd is answered not
by the sailors standing to the guns, but by the steel
battleship itself, breathing from a hundred mouths.
When, at the finale, the battleship rushes under
full steam to meet the fleet, then, in some sort, the
steadfastly labouring, steel driving-rods of the
engine incarnate in themselves the hearts of its
crew, furiously beating in tenseness of expectation.

THE DIRECTOR AS CREATOR OF
THE " ENSEMBLE "

For the film director the concept of ensemble
is extraordinarily wide. Material objects enter
organically into it as well as characters, and it is
necessary once more to recall that, in the final
editing of the picture, the performance of the actor
will stand next to, will have to be welded to, a whole
series of other pieces, which he cannot see, and of
which he can know only indirectly. Only the direc-
tor knows and gauges them completely. Therefore
the actor is considered by the director, before any-
thing else, as material requiring his " treatment."
Let us, in fine, also remember that even each actor
separately who is, in real conditions, apprehended as
something whole, as the figure of a human being
whose movements are perceived as the simultaneous
connected work of all the members of his body — such
a man often does not exist on the screen. In editing,
the director builds sometimes not only scenes, but
also a separate human being. Let us remember how
often in films we see and remember a character

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 117

despite the fact that we saw only his head and,
separately, his hand.

In his experimental films Lev Kuleshov tried to
record a woman in movement by photographing
the hands, feet, eyes, and head of different women.
As consequence of editing resulted the impression
of the movements of one single person. Naturally
this example does not suggest a special means of
practical creation of a man not available in reality,
but it emphasises especially vividly the statement
that, even in the limits of his short individual work
unconnected with other actors, the image of the
actor derives not from a separate stage of work, the
shooting of a separate piece, but only from that
editing construction that welds such pieces to a
filmic whole. Take this as one more confirmation
of the absolute necessity for exactness in working,
and one more confirmation of the axiomatic
supremacy of its imagined edited image over each
separate element of the actual work in front of the
lens. Also, quite obviously of course, the axiomatic
supremacy of the director, bearer of the image of
the general construction of the film, over the actor
who provides material for this construction.

n8 PUDOVKIN

Part IV
THE ACTOR IN THE FRAME

THE ACTOR AND THE FILMIC IMAGE

I have already spoken above of the necessity
constantly to bear in mind the rectangular
space of the screen that always encloses every
movement shot. The movement of the actor in
real three-dimensional space once again serves the
director only as material for the selection of the
elements required for construction of the future
appearance, flat and inserted exactly into the space
of the frame. The director never sees the actor as
a real human being ; he imagines and sees the
future filmic appearance, and carefully selects the
material for it by making the actor move in various
ways and altering the position of the camera relative
to him. The same disintegration as with every-
thing in film. Not for one moment is the director
presented with live men. Before him he has always
only a series of component parts of the future filmic
construction. This does not necessitate a sort of
killing and mechanicalisation of the actor. He can
be as spontaneous as he likes, and need not in any
way disturb the natural continuity of his movements,
but the director, controlling the camera, will, owing
to the nature of cinematographic representation,
himself pick out from the entire work of the living
man the pieces he requires. When Griffith shot

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 119

the hands of Mae Marsh in the trial scene, the
actress was probably crying when she pinched the
skin of her hands ; she lived a full and real
experience and was completely in the grip of the
necessary emotion as a whole, but the director, for
the film, picked out only her hands.

THE ACTOR AND LIGHT

There is one more element characteristic for the
work of the director with the actor — that is light,
that light without which neither object nor human
being nor anything else has existence on the film.
The director, determining the lighting in the studio,
literally creates the future form upon the screen.
For light is the only element that has effect on the
sensitive strips of celluloid, only of light of varying
strengths is woven the image we behold upon the
screen. And this light serves not only to develop
the forms — to make them visible. An actor unlit
is — nothing. An actor lit only so as to be visible is
a simple, undifferentiated, indefinite object. This
same light can be altered and constructed in such a
way as to make it enter as an organic component
into the actor's work. The composition of the light
can eliminate much, emphasise much, and bring out
with such strength the expressive work of the actor,
that it becomes apparent that light is not simply a
condition for the fixation of expressive work by the
actor, but in itself represents a part of this expressive
work. Remember the face of the priest in The
Battleship "Potemkin " lit from underneath.47

120 PUDOVKIN

Thus the work of the film actor in creation of his
filmic image is bounded by a technically complex
frame of conditions specifically proper to the film.
The exact awareness of these conditions lies only
with the director, and the actor can only enter
creatively, sufficiently widely and deeply, into the
work of creating the film when he is a sufficiently
tightly and organically welded member of the team
— that is, if his work be sufficiently deeply embraced
in the sphere of the preparatory work of the director
and scenarist. Thus we have arrived, at the end of
this chapter, once more at a conclusion of the
necessity for an organic team.

Part V
THE DIRECTOR AND THE CAMERAMAN

THE CAMERAMAN AND THE CAMERA

When the actors have been chosen, and the
scenes exactly and editably prepared — then begins
the shooting. Into the work enters a new
member of the team — a man armed with a
camera, who does the actual shooting — the camera-
man. And now the director has a new problem to
overcome : between the collected and prepared
material and the future finished work stands the
camera, and the man working it. Everything that
has been said about the composition of movement
in the space of the picture, about light bringing out

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 121

the picture, about expressive light, must in actuality
be brought into conformity with the technical
possibilities of shooting. The camera, which appears
for the first time in shooting, introduces a real
conditionality into film-work. First and foremost :
the angle of its vision. Normal human vision can
embrace a little less than 180 degrees of surrounding
space — that is to say, man can perceive almost the
half of his horizon. The field of the lens is con-
siderably less. Its view-angle is equal roughly to
45 degrees and, here already the director begins to
leave behind the normal apprehension of real
space. Already, owing to this peculiarity, the
guided lens of the camera does not embrace the
entirety of optical space, but picks out from it only
a part, an element, the so-called picture. With
the help of a number of camera accessories a yet
greater narrowing of this view-field can be attained ;
the frame itself surrounding the image can be
altered, by means of a so-called " mask."

Not only does the small view-angle set bounds to
the space in which the action develops both in
height and in width, but by a technical property of
the lens the depth of the space picked out is also
limited. An actor shot from very close has not only
to fit his movements into the narrow frame of the
picture in order not to overstep its bounds, he must
remember also that he must not recede in depth or
approach, for he would then go out of focus and his
image would be unclear. At the same time, the
camera, over and above those limitations that

122 PUDOVKIN

condition the movements of the material shot, has
also a number of accessories which, far from limiting,
on the contrary broaden, the work of the director.
Remember, for example, in the pictures of Griffith,
those lyrically tender moments that appear as if
taken through a slight haze. Here we have a
method that unquestionably strengthens the impres-
sions of the scene shot, and it is carried out solely
by the cameraman taking his shot through a light,
transparent gauze or with a specially constructed
lens.48

Remember the extraordinarily impressive shot
in The Battleship "Potemkin" when the stone steps
appear suddenly to rush up to meet the falling
wounded. This effect could not have been attained
without a special apparatus that enabled the camera
to be tilted quickly from up downwards during the
shot.

In the hands of the cameraman are those actual
technical possibilities with the help of which he
can transform the abstract ideas of the director to
concrete. And these possibilities are innumerable.

THE CAMERA AND ITS VIEWPOINT

When the camera stands ready in position, the
director does not now only orientate himself on the
future screen image, as he did when working on the
scenario or selecting and preparing the actor. He
does not now only imagine or visualize it. Look-
ing through the view-finder (a special appliance
attached to the camera), the director sees on smaller

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 123

scale the future picture that will later be projected
on the screen. The scenario has been written, its
special tasks exactly formulated. The prescription
of the shooting of each scene, determining its plastic
and rhythmic content, is ready, the cast is selected
and ready for work, all preparation completed,
and now the material thus prepared has to be fixed
upon the celluloid. The camera when prepared for
shooting embodies the viewpoint from which the
future spectator will apprehend the appearance on
the screen. This viewpoint may be various. Each
object can be seen, and therefore shot, from a
thousand different points, and the selection of any
given point cannot, and must not, be by chance.
This selection is always related to the entire content
of the task that the director keeps in mind in aiming,
in one way or another, to affect the spectator.

Let us begin, for argument's sake, with the simple
showing of a shape. Suppose we wish to shoot a
cigarette lying on the edge of a table. One can so
set up the camera that the opening of the cardboard
cartouche of the cigarette exactly faces the lens ;
and as a result of the shot no cigarette will appear
upon the screen — the spectator will see only the
stripe of the edge of the table, and on it a small
round black circle, the opening of the cartouche
circled by its round white frame of cardboard. It
follows that in order to enable the spectator to see
the cigarette, it is necessary for the lens of the camera
also to be able to " see " it. It is necessary, in
shooting, to find such a position for the lens in

124 PUDOVKIN

relation to the object as will enable the whole shape
of the latter to be seen with maximum clarity and
sharpness.

If a torn cigarette is to be shot, the cameraman
must so position the camera that the lens, and with it
the eye of the future spectator, shall clearly see the
tear of the paper, and the tobacco sticking through it.

The example with the cigarette is very elementary
— it but roughly proves the substantial importance
of the selection of a definite set-up of the camera
in relation to the object shot. The problems solved
by this selection, in actual practice, are many sided
and provide one of the most important aspects of
the joint work of director and cameraman.

Let us turn to the more complex. The task of the
director may involve not only a simple representa-
tion of the shape of the given object, but of its
relative position in this or that part of space. Let
us suppose we have not only to shoot a wall-clock,
but also to show that it hangs very high. Here the
task of selecting the picture is complicated by a new
requirement, and the cameraman, in choosing the
set-up for the camera, either goes to a good distance,
trying to get a part of the floor in the picture and
thus show the height, or he shoots the clock from
near but from below, bringing out its position by
a sharp fore-shortening in perspective. If we take
into consideration the fact that the material
employed by the film director may be exceptionally
complex in its form, it becomes clear how enormous
a part is played by the selection of the camera-set-up.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 125

To shoot a railway-engine well implies to be able to
select that viewpoint from which its complicated
form will be most exhaustively and vividly apparent.
A correctly discovered set-up determines the expres-
siveness of the future image.

Everything said so far has related especially to
the shooting of motionless objects that do not
change their position in relation to the camera.

THE SHOOTING OF MOVEMENT

The work becomes yet more complicated when
movement is introduced. An object not only has
shape, this shape in the image alters itself func-
tionally with its movement, and, moreover, its
movement itself has a shape and serves as object of
shooting.

The previous desideratum remains in force. The
camera must be so directed that every happening
in front of it shall be visible in its clearest and
most distinct form. Why does a shot of an army
parade taken from above produce so vivid an
impression ? Because it is just from above that,
with the fullest sharpness and clearness, the energetic,
rhythmic movement of troops can best be observed.
Why is the impression of a rushing train or a racing
car so effective when the object is shot so that,
having appeared in the distance, it charges straight
at the camera, and dashes past near it? Because
it is in the perspective increase of the approaching
machine that the speed of the movement is most
distinctly represented. If we are to shoot a car and

i26 PUDOVKIN

a chauffeur sleeping in it, the cameraman will
place the camera on the ground near the car. But
if we are to shoot the same car winding through the
traffic of the street, the cameraman will shoot the
scene from the third floor in order the better to pick
out the movement in its form and essence. The
selection of the camera set-up can intensify the
expression of the image shot in many directions.
The shooting of a railway-engine charging straight
at the lens communicates to an exceptional degree
the power of the gigantic machine.

In The Battleship " Potemkin " the muzzles of the
guns, looking straight at the spectator, are excep-
tionally threatening. In The Virgin of Stamboul the
galloping horses are shot by the cameraman from
a road-ditch looking up, so that the hoofs dash by
soaring, as it were, over the heads of the spectator,
and the impression of a mad gallop is increased to a
maximum. Here the work of the cameraman ceases
to be a simple fixation of an incident independently
of the director working on it. The quality of the
future film depends not only on what is to be shot,
but also on how it is to be shot. This how must be
planned by the director and carried out by the
cameraman.

THE CAMERA COMPELS THE SPECTATOR TO SEE
AS THE DIRECTOR WISHES

By selection of the camera set-up, director and
cameraman lead the spectator after them. The
viewpoint of the camera is scarcely ever the exact

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 127

viewpoint of an ordinary spectator. The power of
the film director lies in the fact that he can force
the spectator to see an object not as it is easiest to see
it. The camera, changing its position, as it were,
" behaves " in a given mode and manner. It is, as
it were, charged with a conditioned relation to the
object shot : now, urged by heightened interest, it
delves into details ; now it contemplates the general
whole of the picture. Often it places itself in the
position of the hero and records what he sees ;
sometimes it even " feels " with the hero. Thus, in
The Leather Pushers, the camera sees with the eyes of
a beaten boxer rendered dizzy by a blow, and shows
the revolving, swimming picture of the amphitheatre.

The camera can " feel " also with the spectator.
Here we encounter a very interesting method of
film-work. It can be said with completest safety
that man apprehends the world around him in
varying ways, depending on his emotional con-
dition. A number of attempts on the part of the
film director has been directed towards the creation,
by means of special methods of shooting, of a given
emotional condition in the spectator, and thus the
strengthening of the impression of the scene.
Griffith was the first to shoot tragic situations as if
through a light mist, explaining it by his desire to
force the spectator to see, as it were, through tears.

In the film Strike there is an interesting sequence :
workers out for a walk outside the town. In front of
the strollers is an accordion-player. After the close-
up in which the accordion is seen opening and

128 PUDOVKIN

shutting follows a series of pieces in which the men
strolling are shot from various, often very distant,
viewpoints. But the playing accordion remains
held through all the shots, become barely visible,
transparent. The landscapes and the groups walk-
ing afar off are visible through it. Here has been
solved a peculiar problem. The director wished,
in representing the picture of the stroll, laying it in
the wide background of the landscape, to preserve
simultaneously the characteristic rhythm of music
heard sounding from far away. In this he suc-
ceeded. He succeeded thanks to the fact that the
cameraman was able to find a concrete method for
the realisation of the director's idea. To take this
scene the accordion had to be swathed in black
velvet, and it was necessary to calculate exactly the
relative exposures of the shot with the landscape
and of the separate shot of the accordion. A
number of calculations had to be made, requiring a
special knowledge of the craft of the cameraman
and a technical inventive faculty. Here a complete
blending of the work of director and cameraman
was indispensable, and it conditioned the success of
the achievement. The ideas of the director, in
his work in making expressive the film image, only
receive concrete embodiment when technical know-
ledge and the creative inventive faculty of the
cameraman go hand in hand, or, in other words,
when the cameraman is an organic member of the
team and takes part in the creation of the film from
beginning to end.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 129

THE SHAPING OF THE COMPOSITION

The selection of the camera set-up is but a special
case of the work of selecting location. In working on
location (and, on the average, fifty per cent of every
production is made on location) 49 the first task of the
cameraman and director is to select that part of
space in which the scene is to develop. Such
selection — like everything in film work — must not
be by chance. Nature in the picture must never
serve as background to the scene being taken, but
must enter organically into its whole and become a
part of its content. Every background qua back-
ground runs counter to the basic laws of films.
If the director require in a scene only the actor and
his performance, then every background, with the
exception of a flat surface inconspicuous to the
attention, will steal a part of the spectator's atten-
tion, and thus substantially nullify the basic method
of film effect.60 If something be brought into
the picture besides the actor, this something must be
linked to the general purpose of the scene. When,
in Way down East, Griffith shows the lad Barthelmess
knee-deep in thick grass, surrounded by trembling
white daisies, bowing in the wind, in this picture
nature does not serve as a chance background ;
it is true that it is done in a rather sentimental way,
but it vividly supplements and strengthens the
image shown. The work on the formation of the
" essence " of the picture, the necessity for an
organic dependence between the developing action

i3o PUDOVKIN

and the surrounding, is so indispensable and im-
portant, that the finding and determination of the
locations desired for exterior shots is one of the most
complex stages in the preparatory work of the
cameraman and director.

One of the first requirements set in the production
work of the film director is exactitude. If, having
thought out the filmic image of a scene, in taking it
he desire to get that material out of which he can
create what he has planned, he must inevitably
think of each piece he is taking as an element of the
future editing construction ; and the more exact is
his work on the components of each element being
taken, the more perfectly and clearly he will reach
the possibility of realising his thought. From this
derives the peculiar relation of the film director to
the actor, to the objects, to all the real matter with
which he works in the course of his production.
Each separate piece of celluloid used by the director
in taking a required shot must be used in such a
way that its length shall exactly conform to the
requirements of that general task which forms the
basis of the filmic treatment of any given scene.
In every given piece a movement begins and
proceeds to an exact required point, and the time
required for this movement must be exactly deter-
mined by the director. If the movement be
accelerated or slowed down, the piece obtained will
either over- or under-step the necessary length.
Such an element of an incident, in departing from
the length prescribed for it, will, in the process of

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 131

editing, destroy the harmony of the filmic image
planned. Everything chance, unorganised, every-
thing unsubdued to the editing construction
planned by the director in representing to himself
the filmic image of each given incident — all this
will lead inevitably to lack of clarity, to confusion
in the final editing formation of the incident. An
incident will awaken an impression from the screen
only if it be well edited. Good editing will be
achieved when for it is found the correct rhythm,
and this rhythm is dependent on the relative
lengths of the pieces, while the lengths of the pieces
are in organic dependence on the content of each
separate one. Therefore the director must enclose
every shot he takes into a harsh, severely limited,
temporal frame.

Let us, for example, suppose that we are editably
taking an incident with an actor. The incident is as
follows : The actor sits in an armchair tensely
awaiting his possible arrest. He hears that some one
has approached the door ; he watches intensely,
sees the handle of the door beginning to move. The
actor slowly takes out his revolver that he had hidden
between the back and the seat of the chair ; the
door begins to open. He quickly aims the revolver,
but, there enters unexpectedly, instead of the police-
men, a boy carrying some puppies (from the film
Beyond the Law).

The editing is written as follows :

1. The actor sitting in the armchair alters his

position, as if he had heard a knock.

132 PUDOVKIN

2. His tense, watching face.

3« Taken by itself : the moving door-handle.

4. Close-up — the hand of the actor, slowly and
fumblingly drawing the revolver.

5. The slightly opening door.

6. The actor aims the revolver.

7. Through the door steps the boy with the
puppies.

The elements of the incident, by means of which
the attention of the spectator is turned now to the
man, now to the door, now concentrates upon the
moving handle, now upon the hand of the actor or
the revolver, must, finally, blend upon the screen
to the single image of an unbrokenly developing
incident. Undoubtedly the director must, for the
creation of a sharp break between the slowly
increasing tension and the unexpectedly rapid
denouement, establish a definite, creatively discovered
rhythm of editing. Every element of the incident
has to be taken separately. And everything that
the actor performs in the shooting of each piece
must be exactly temporally limited. But it is not
sufficient to set temporal boundaries ; within these
boundaries the actor must carry out the given series
of movements, must saturate every piece with the
given clear and expressive plastic content. If room
for chance were left in the actor's work, then not
only a pause, a slowing down, but a superfluous
movement on the part of the actor would already
shatter those temporal limits that must infallibly be

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 133

set by the director. This shattering, as we have
already said, would alter the length of the piece,
and thereby destroy the effect of the whole con-
struction of the incident. We thus perceive that
not only must temporal boundaries be exactly
established, but also the movement form they
enclose ; the plastic content of the acting work in
each separate scene must be performed exactly, if
the director wish to attain a definite result in the
creation of that filmic image of the scene that is to
effect an impression on the spectator from the screen,
not now in its real, but in its filmic form. The
exactitude of work in space and in time is an
indispensable condition, by fulfilment of which the
film technician can attain a clearly and vividly
impressive filmic representation.

The same striving for exactitude must govern the
director and cameraman not only in scene-con-
struction, but also in selection of the parts of location
from which the space on the screen is to be con-
structed. It may appear to suffice that if a river or
a wood be required for a shot, a " pretty " river or
wood be found and then the shooting begun. In
reality, however, the director never seeks a river or
a wood, he seeks the required " pictures." These
required pictures, corresponding exactly to the
problems of each scene, may be strewn over dozens
of different rivers ; they will, however, be blended
to a whole in the film. The director does not shoot
nature ; he uses it for his future composition in
editing. The problem set by this composition may

i34 PUDOVKIN

be strict to such a degree that director and camera-
man often forcibly alter and reconstruct a part of
nature in trying to obtain the form required. The
breaking away of interfering boughs, the felling of
a superfluous tree, its transplantation whithersoever
may be necessary, the damming of a river, the filling
of it with blocks of ice — all this is characteristic for
the film technician, always and by all means making
use of natural material for the construction of the
filmic image required. The employment of nature
as material reaches its extremest expression in the
construction of natural scenes in the studio, when
from real earth, real stones, sand, live trees, and
water, are exactly created in the studio just those
forms required by the director.

The selection of the shooting location and the
determination of the camera set-up, as a whole
technically termed " selection of the picture/' are
always complicated by yet another condition. This
condition is light. We have already spoken of the
powerful influence of light. Light it is that finally
creates that form which is transferred to the screen.
Only when the object is lit in the required manner
and to the required intensity is it ready for shooting.
The appearance on the celluloid projected upon
the screen is only a combination of light and dark
specks. On the screen there is nothing but light,
and it is quite obvious, therefore, that in controlling
the light at the taking we are actually performing
the work of making the future image. Feeling for
the quality and intensity of light is inseparably

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 135

bound up with the knowledge of that relation
between the object and its later appearance upon
the celluloid which belongs exclusively to the
technique of the cameraman.

THE LABORATORY

Everything that has been said already about the
necessity for the close relation of all those collabora-
ting in the production of the film relates also in full
to the cameraman. Through the director, the work
of whom on the various processes and happenings of
reality he transforms to filmic material, the camera-
man is bound to the other members of the team, the
actor and the scenarist. He, in his turn, serves as
the connecting link between the director and the
technicians of the laboratory, the work of which is
the next stage of working out the film material,
directly following the shooting.

Only after the development of the negative and
the printing of the positive does the director at last
receive in pure form the film material from which
he can assemble his work. Just as every other stage
of film production, the work of the laboratory also
involves more than the simple execution to pattern
of standardised processes (chemical treatments of
the exposed film). Its tasks are very often the con-
tinuation of the ideas originated by the scenarist
and pursued by the director and cameraman. The
Griffithian twilight in America could not have been
obtained without a developer of the necessary syn-
thetic properties and power. Only now, when before

136 PUDOVKIN

us appear all the pieces necessary for the creation
of the film, at last in the shape of images printed on
positive stock, only now ends the organic liaison
between all the workers on the film production, that
liaison which is an indispensable condition of the
creation of a " real," significant, finished work.

The director now begins to join his detached
pieces to a whole. We now leave him engaged on
that basic creative process of which we spoke at
the beginning of this essay.51

COLLECTIVISM : THE BASIS OF FILM-WORK

This essay on the film director has covered all the
collaborators in the production of a film. It could
not have been otherwise. The work of film-
making has all the properties of an industrial
undertaking. The technical manager can achieve
nothing without foremen and workmen, and their
collective effort will lead to no good result if every
collaborator limit himself only to a mechanical
performance of his narrow function. Team-work
is that which makes every, even the most insig-
nificant, task a part of the living work and organically
connects it to the general task. It is a property of
film-work that the smaller the number of persons
direcdy taking part in it, the more disjointed is
their activity and the worse is the finished product
of their work — that is, the film.

(First published as Number Five of a series of popular scientific
film handbooks by Kinopetchat, Moscow and Leningrad, 1926.)

Ill

TYPES INSTEAD OF ACTORS52

(address delivered to the film society)

FIRST of all allow me, in the name of Russian
film-workers, to greet in your person that
organisation [the Film Society] which was
the first to undertake the task of acquainting the
English public with our films.

I ask you to forgive my bad English. Unfor-
tunately my knowledge of it is so limited that I
cannot speak, but must read my notes, and even
then not very well. I shall endeavour to acquaint
you in this short speech with some of the principles
which form the basis of our work. When I say
" our " I mean, in fact, the directors of the so-called
left wing.*

I began my work in the films quite accidentally.
Up to 1920 I was a chemical engineer, and, to tell
you the truth, looked at films with contempt, though
I was very fond of art in other forms. I, like many
others, could not agree that films were an art. I
looked upon them as an inferior substitute for the
stage, that is all.

Such an attitude is not to be wondered at,

* See note to section : Translator's Preface.
*37

138 PUDOVKIN

considering how rubbishy the films shown at the
time were. There are many such films even now ;
in Germany nowadays they are called Kitsch. Primi-
tive subjects calculated to appeal to the average bad
taste — a cheap showman's booth entertainment that
at first gives a good return to the owner, but in the
long run demoralises the public.

The methods applied to the preparation of such
films have nothing in common with art. The pro-
ducers of such films have only one thing in mind,
and that is to photograph as many lovely girls' faces
from as many angles as possible, and to provide the
hero with as many victories in fights as possible, and
to wind up with an effective kiss as finale. There
was nothing extraordinary in the fact that such films
could not attract any serious attention.

But a chance meeting with a young painter and
theoretician of the film — Kuleshov — gave an oppor-
tunity to learn his ideas, making me change my
views completely. It was from him that I first
learned of the meaning of the word " montage" a
word which played such an important part in the
development of our film-art.

From our contemporary point of view, Kuleshov's
ideas were extremely simple. All he said was this :
" In every art there must be firstly a material, and
secondly a method of composing this material
specially adapted to this art." The musician has
sounds as material and composes them in time.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 139

The painter's materials are colour, and he combines
them in space on the surface of the canvas. What
then, is the material which the film director possesses,
and what are the methods of composition of his
material ?

Kuleshov maintained that the material in film-
work consists of pieces of film, and that the com-
position method is their joining together in a
particular, creatively discovered order. He main-
tained that film-art does not begin when the artists
act and the various scenes are shot — this is only the
preparation of the material. Film-art begins from
the moment when the director begins to combine
and join together the various pieces of film. By
joining them in various combinations, in different
orders, he obtains differing results.

Suppose, for example, we have three such pieces :
on one is somebody's smiling face, on another is a
frightened face, and on the third is a revolver
pointing at somebody.

Let us combine these pieces in two different
orders. Let us suppose that in the first instance we
show, first the smiling face, then the revolver, then
the frightened face ; and that the second time we
show the frightened face first, then the revolver,
then the smiling face. In the first instance the
impression we get is that the owner of the face is a
coward ; in the second that he is brave. This is
certainly a crude example, but from contemporary

140 PUDOVKIN

films we can see more subtly that it is only by an
able and inspired combination of pieces of the shot
film that the strongest impression can be effected in
the audience.

Kuleshov and I made an interesting experiment.
We took from some film or other several close-ups
of the well-known Russian actor Mosjukhin. We
chose close-ups which were static and which did not
express any feeling at all — quiet close-ups. We
joined these close-ups, which were all similar, with
other bits of film in three different combinations.
In the first combination the close-up of Mosjukhin
was immediately followed by a shot of a plate of
soup standing on a table. It was obvious and
certain that Mosjukhin was looking at this soup.
In the second combination the face of Mosjukhin
was joined to shots showing a coffin in which lay a
dead woman. In the third the close-up was
followed by a shot of a little girl playing with a
funny toy bear. When we showed the three
combinations to an audience which had not been
let into the secret the result was terrific. The
public raved about the acting of the artist. They
pointed out the heavy pensiveness of his mood
over the forgotten soup, were touched and moved by
the deep sorrow with which he looked on the dead
woman, and admired the light, happy smile with
which he surveyed the girl at play. But we knew
that in all three cases the face was exactly the same.

But the combination of various pieces in one or
another order is not sufficient. It is necessary to be

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 141

able to control and manipulate the length of these
pieces, because the combination of pieces of varying
length is effective in the same way as the combina-
tion of sounds of various length in music, by creating
the rhythm of the film and by means of their varying
effect on the audience. Quick, short pieces rouse
excitement, while long pieces have a soothing effect.

To be able to find the requisite order of shots or
pieces, and the rhythm necessary for their combina-
tion— that is the chief task of the director's art.
This art we call montage — or constructive editing.
It is only with the help of montage that I am able to
solve problems of such complexity as the work on
the artists' acting.

The thing is, that I consider that the main danger
for an actor who is working on the films is so-called
" stagey acting." I want to work only with real
material — this is my principle. I maintain that to
show, alongside real water and real trees and grass,
a property beard pasted on the actor's face, wrinkles
traced by means of paint, or stagey acting is impos-
sible. It is opposed to the most elementary ideas
of style.

But what should one do ? It is very difficult to
work with stage actors. People so exceptionally
talented that they can live, and not act, are very
seldom met with, while if you ask an ordinary actor
merely to sit quietly and not to act, he will act for
your benefit the type of a non-acting actor.

i42 PUDOVKIN

I have tried to work with people who had never
seen either a play or a film, and I succeeded, with
the help of montage, in achieving some result. It is
true that in this method one must be very cunning ;
it is necessary to invent thousands of tricks to create
the mood required in the person and to catch the
right moment to photograph him.

For example, in the film The Heir to Jenghiz Khan,
I wanted to have a crowd of Mongols looking with
rapture on a precious fox-fur. I engaged a Chinese
conjuror and photographed the faces of the Mongols
watching him. When I joined this piece to a piece
of the shot of fur held in the hands of the seller I got
the result required. Once I spent endless time and
effort trying to obtain from an actor a good-natured
smile — it did not succeed because the actor kept
on " acting." When I did catch a moment, and
photographed his face smiling at a joke I made, he
had been firmly convinced that the shooting was
over.

I am continuously working on the perfection of
this method, and I believe in its future. Of course,
one can photograph in this way only short bits of
separate actors, and it is the art of the director, with
the help of montage, to make out of the short bits
a whole, a living figure.

Not for a moment do I regret that I took this line.
I more and more often work with casual actors, and
I am satisfied by the results. In my last film I met

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 143

the Mongols, absolutely uncultured people who did
not even understand my language, and, despite this,
the Mongols in that film can easily compete, as far
as acting honours are concerned, with the best
actors.

In conclusion I would like to tell you of my views
on a very tricky question which I have met recently.
I mean sound films.

I think that their future is enormous, but when
I use the expression " sound film " I do not in any
way mean dialogue films, in which the speech and
various sound effects are perfectly synchronised
with their corresponding visual images on the
screen. Such films are nothing but a photographic
variety of stage plays. They are, of course, new and
interesting, and will undoubtedly at first attract
the curiosity of the public, but not for long.

The real future belongs to sound films of another
kind. I visualise a film in which sounds and human
speech are wedded to the visual images on the
screen in the same way as that in which two or
more melodies can be combined by an orchestra.
The sound will correspond to the film in the same
way as the orchestra corresponds to the film to-day.

The only difference from the method of to-day is
that the director will have the control of the sound
in his own hands, and not in the hands of the
conductor of the orchestra, and that the wealth of
those sounds will be overwhelming. All the sounds

i44 PUDOVKIN

of the whole world, beginning with the whisper of
a man or the cry of a child and rising to the roar of
an explosion. The expressionism of a film can reach
unthought-of heights.

It can combine the fury of a man with the roar
of a lion. The language of the cinema will achieve
the power of the language of literature.

But one must never show on the screen a man and
reproduce his word exactly synchronised with the
movements of his lips. This is cheap imitation, an
ingenious trick that is useless to anyone.

One of the Berlin Pressmen asked me : " Do you
not think that it would be good to hear, for instance,
in the film Mother, the weeping mother when she
watches over the body of her dead husband ? "
I answered : "If this were possible I would do it
thus : The mother is sitting near the body and the
audience hears clearly the sound of the water
dripping in the wash-basin ; then comes the shot
of the silent head of the dead man with the burning
candle ; and here one hears a subdued weeping."

That is how I imagine to myself a film that sounds,
and I must point out that such a film will remain
international. Words and sounds heard, but not
seen on the screen, could be rendered in any
language, and changed with the film for every
country.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 145

Allow me to conclude this note by thanking you
for the patience and attention with which you have
listened through my address.

(Delivered, in the present translation by I. M. and S. S. N., to

the Film Society, in Stewart's Cafe, Regent Street, February 3,

1929. Published, slightly amended, by the Cinema, February 6,
1929)

IV
CLOSE-UPS IN TIME 53

(address for the workers' film federation)

DURING the summer of the year 1930 I
attended a meeting in the Palace of Labour
at Moscow. Work was ended. Outside in
the street it was raining hard, and we had to wait
for it to stop. The globules of water rebounded
slightly from the sill ; now they were large, now
smaller until they vanished in the air. They moved,
rising and falling in curves of various form, in a
complex yet definite rhythm. Sometimes several
streams, probably influenced by the wind, united
into one. The water would strike upon the stone,
scattering into a transparent, shivering fan, then fall,
and anew the round and glistening globules would
leap over the edge, mingling with the tiny raindrops
descending through the air.

What a rain ! I was but watching it, yet I felt
to the full its freshness, its moisture, its generous
plenty. I felt drenched in it. It poured down on
my head and over my shoulders. Most certainly the
earth, soaked brimful, must long have ceased to
drink it up. The shower, as commonly occurs in
summer, ended almost abruptly, scattering its last
drops beneath the already brightening sun.

I left the building and, passing through the garden,
146

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 147

paused to watch a man working with a scythe. He
was bared to the waist. The muscles of his back
contracted and expanded with the even sweep of the
scythe. Its damp blade, flying upwards, caught the
sunlight and burst for a moment into a sharp,
blinding flame. I stepped near. The scythe buried
itself in the wet, rank grass, which, as it was cut
away beneath, slowly gave down on to the ground
in a supple movement impossible to describe.
Gleaming in the slanting sunrays, the raindrops
trembled on the tips of the pointed, drooping grass-
blades, tumbled, and fell. The man mowed ; I
stood and gazed. And once more I found myself
gripped by an unaccustomed feeling of excitement
at the grandeur of the spectacle. Never had I seen
wet grass like this ! Never had I seen how the rain-
drops tumble down the grooves of its narrow blades !
For the first time I wa§ seeing how its stalks fall as
they yield to the sweep of the scythe !

And, as always, according to my invariable
custom (doubtless one familiar to all film directors),
I tried to imagine to myself all this represented on
the screen. I recalled the reaping scenes recorded
and included scores of times in an abundance of
pictures, and felt sharply the poverty of these lifeless
photographs in comparison with the marvellous and
pregnant richness I had seen. One has only to
picture to oneself the flat, grey manikin waving a
long pole, invariably in slightly speeded tempo, to
picture the grass shot from above and looking like
dry, tangled matting, for it to be clear in what

F*

148 PUDOVKIN

measure all this is poor and primitive. I recall even
Eisenstein's technically magnificent General Line>
where, worked out in a complex editing construction,
is shown a reaping competition. Nothing of it
remains in my memory, save men rapidly waving
poorly distinguishable scythes. The question was
how to capture, how to reproduce to others this full
and profound sensation of the actual processes that
twice this day had made me marvel. I tortured
myself on my homeward way> flinging myself in my
thoughts from side to side, seizing and rejecting,
testing and being disappointed. And suddenly, at
last, I had it !

When the director shoots a scene, he changes the
position of the camera, now approaching it to the
actor, now taking it farther away from him, according
to the subject of his concentration of the spectator's
attention — either some general movement or else
some particularity, perhaps the features of an
individual. This is the way he controls the spacial
construction of the scene. Why should he not do
precisely the same with the temporal ? Why should
not a given detail be momentarily emphasised by
retarding it on the screen, and rendering it by
this means particularly outstanding and unprece-
dently clear ? Was not the rain beating on the
stone of the window-sill, the grass falling to the
ground, retarded, in relation to me, by my sharpened
attention ? Was it not thanks to this sharpened
attention that I perceived ever so much more than
I had ever seen before ?

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 149

I tried in my mind's eye to shoot and construct the
mowing of the grass approximately as follows :

1. A man stands bared to the waist. In his
hands is a scythe. Pause. He swings the scythe.
(The whole movement goes in normal speed, i.e.,
has been recorded at normal speed.)

2. The sweep of the scythe continues. The
man's back and shoulders. Slowly the muscles
play and grow tense. (Recorded very fast with
a " slow-motion " apparatus, so that the move-
ment on the screen comes out unusually slow.)

3. The blade of the scythe slowly turning at the
culmination of its sweep. A gleam of the sun
flares up and dies out. (Shot in " slow motion.")

4. The blade flies downward. (Normal speed.)

5. The whole figure of the man brings back the
scythe over the grass at normal speed. A sweep
— back. A sweep — back. A sweep. . . . And at
the moment when the blade of the scythe touches
the grass —

6. — slowly (in " slow motion ") the cut grass
sways, topples, bending and scattering glittering
drops.

. 7. Slowly the muscles of the back relax and the
shoulders withdraw.

8. Again the grass slowly topples, lies flat.

9. The scythe-blade swiftly lifting from the
earth.

10. Similarly swift, the man sweeping with the
scythe. He mows, he sweeps.

1 5o PUDOVKIN

1 1 . At normal speed, a number of men mowing,
sweeping their scythes in unison.

12. Slowly raising his scythe a man moves off
through the dusk.

This is a very approximate sketch. After the
actual shooting, I edited it differently — more com-
plexly, using shots taken at very various speeds.
Within each separate set-up were new, more finely
graduated speeds. When I saw the result upon the
screen I realised that the idea was sound. The new
rhythm, independent of the real, deriving from the
combination of shots at a variety of speeds, yielded
a deepened, one might say remarkably enriched,
sense of the process portrayed upon the screen.

The chance spectators, who were ignorant of the
nature of the method employed, confessed to having
experienced an almost physical sense of moisture,
weight, and force. I tried to shoot and edit the rain
in the same way. I took long shots and close-ups
at different speeds, using " slow motion." The slow
striking of the first heavy drops against dry dust.
They fall, scattering into separate dark globules.
The falling of rain on a surface of water : the swift
impact, a transparent column leaps up, slowly
subsides, and passes away in equally slow circles.
An increase of speed proceeds parallel with the
strengthening of the rain and the widening of the
set-up. The huge, wide expanse of a steadily pouring
network of heavy rain, and then, suddenly, the sharp
introduction of a close-up of a single stream smashing

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 151

against a stone balustrade. As the glittering drops
leap up — their movements are exceptionally slow —
can be seen all the complex, wondrous play of their
intersecting paths through the air. Once more the
movement speeds, but already the rain is lessening.
Closing, come shots of wet grass beneath the sun.
The wind waves it, it slowly sways, the raindrops
slide away, and fall. This movement, taken with
the highest speed of the " slow-motion " camera,
showed me for the first time that it is possible to
record and reproduce the movement of grass before
the wind. In earlier pictures I had seen nothing
but a dry, hysterically trembling tangle. I am
deeply convinced both of the need for and the sense
of practicability achieved by this new method.

It is of the highest importance to appreciate, in
all its profundity, the essence of this work in " slow-
motion," and to exploit it not as a trick, but as a
means of consciously, at required points, retarding
or accelerating movement to a precise degree. It is
necessary to be able to exploit every possible speed
of the camera, from the very highest, yielding on
the screen exceptional slowness of movement, to the
very least, resulting on the screen in an incredible
swiftness. Sometimes a very slight retardation just
of the plain and simple walk of a human being
endows it with a weight and significance that could
never be rendered by acting. I tried to render a
shell explosion by an editing construction of shots
at various speeds : Slow at the beginning ; then
very rapid flight ; slightly retarded development ;

1 52 PUDOVKIN

the ground slowly sinks away, and then suddenly
fragments of earth start flying very rapidly straight
at the spectator ; for a fraction of a second an
instantaneous change and they are flying slowly,
crushingly and terribly, then an equally sudden
change and once more they are flying fast. It came
out excellently !

Cinematography with the " slow-motion " camera
has long been practised. The disconcerting strange-
ness of retarded movement on the screen, the possi-
bility of perceiving forms that ordinarily are
imperceptible and invisible, yet none the less
existent in actuality, exerts so powerful an impression
on the spectator that it is already no uncommon
thing for directors to insert shots taken in " slow-
motion " into their pictures. (It is to the point here
to note that the charm of a cleverly " captured "
movement in a drawing often depends on the same
" slow-motion " effect, only here the role of the
" slow-motion " camera is played by the artist's eye.)

But all the directors who have exploited retarda-
tion of movement have failed to do the one thing
that, in my view, is the most important. They have
failed to incorporate the retarded movement in the
editing construction as a whole — in the general
rhythmical flow of the film. Suppose they have
been using " slow-motion " to shoot a horse jumping,
then they have shot it as a whole, and as a whole
inserted it in the picture, almost as a separate
" dragged in " sequence. I have heard that Jean
Epstein shot a whole film in " slow-motion " (I think

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 153

it was The Fall of the House of Usher, from E. A. Poe's
story), using the effect of retarded motion to give a
mystical tinge to every scene.

This is not at all what I mean. I refer to the
incorporation of various degrees of retarded speed
of movement integrally in the construction of a
given editing phrase. A short-length shot in " slow-
motion " can be placed between two longer normal-
speeded shots, concentrating the attention of the
spectator at the desired point for a moment. " Slow-
motion " in editing is not a distortion of an actual
process. It is a portrayal more profound and precise,
a conscious guidance of the attention of the spectator.

This is the eternal characteristic of cinemato-
graphy. I tried to construct the blow of a fist on
a table as follows : The fist rushes swiftly down on
to the table, and the moment it touches it the
subsequent shots show a glass, stood nearby, slowly
jumping, rocking, and falling. By this conjunction
of rapid and slow shots was produced an almost
audible, exceptionally sharply sensed impression of
a violent blow. The full processes shown upon the
screen by the editing together of shots recorded at
various speeds seem endowed with a rhythm peculiar
to themselves, a sort of breath of life of their own.
They are alive, for they have received the vital spark
of an appraising, selecting, and all-comprehending
concept. They do not slip by like landscape past
the window of a railway carriage beneath the
indifferent glance of a passenger familiar with the
route. They unfold and grow, like the narrative of

i54 PUDOVKIN

a gifted observer, who has perceived the thing or
process more clearly than anyone else has ever done
before.

I am convinced that this method can be extended
to work in shooting a man — his expression, his
gestures. I already know by experience what
precious material is afforded by a man's smile shot
in " slow-motion." I have extracted from such shots
some remarkable pauses, wherein the eyes alone are
engaged in a smile that the lips have not yet begun
to share. A tremendous future stretches before the
" close-up of time.55 Particularly in sound film,
where the rhythm is given point and complexity by
its conjunction with sound, particularly here is it
important.

(Written but not delivered as an address for the Workers' Film
Federation Summer School, 1931, and published, in the present
translation by I. M. and H. C. Stevens, in The Observer, Jan. 31,
1932, by courtesy of whose editor it is now reprinted.)

V

ASYNCHRONISM AS A PRINCIPLE OF
SOUND FILM

THE technical invention of sound has long
been accomplished, and brilliant experiments
have been made in the field of recording.
This technical side of sound-film making may be
regarded as already relatively perfected, at least in
America. But there is a great difference between
the technical development of sound and its develop-
ment as a means of expression. The expressive
achievements of sound still lie far behind its technical
possibilities. I assert that many theoretical ques-
tions whose answers are clear to us are still provided
in practice only with the most primitive solutions.
Theoretically, we in the Soviet Union are in advance
of Western Europe and U.S.A.

Our first question is : What new content can be
brought into the cinema by the use of Sound ? It
would be entirely false to consider sound merely as
a mechanical device enabling us to enhance the
naturalness of the image. Examples of such most
primitive sound effects : in the silent cinema we
were able to show a car, now in sound film we can
add to its image a record of its natural sound ; or
again, in silent film a speaking man was associated
with a title, now we hear his voice. The role which
sound is to play in film is much more significant

155

156 PUDOVKIN

than a slavish imitation of naturalism on these lines ;
the first function of sound is to augment the potential
expressiveness of the film's content.

If we compare the sound to the silent film, we
find that it is possible to explain the content more
deeply to the spectator with relatively the same
expenditure of time. It is clear that this deeper
insight into the content of the film cannot be given
to the spectator simply by adding an accompaniment
of naturalistic sound ; we must do something more.
This something more is the development of the image
and the sound strip each along a separate rhythmic
course. They must not be tied to one another by
naturalistic imitation but connected as the result of
the interplay of action. Only by this method can
we find a new and richer form than that available
in the silent film. Unity of sound and image is
realised by an interplay of meanings which results,
as we shall presently show, in a more exact rendering
of nature than its superficial copying. In silent
film, by our editing of a variety of images, we began
to attain the unity and freedom that is realised in
nature only in its abstraction by the human mind.
Now in sound film we can, within the same strip of
celluloid, not only edit different points in space, but
can cut into association with the image selected
sounds that reveal and heighten the character of
each — wherever in silent film we had a conflict of
but two opposing elements, now we can have four.

A primitive example of the use of sound to reveal
an inner content can be cited in the expression of

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 157

the stranding of a town-bred man in the midst of the
desert. In silent film we should have had to cut in
a shot of the town ; now in sound film we can carry
town-associated sounds into the desert and edit them
there in place of the natural desert sounds. Uses of
this kind are already familiar to film directors in
Western Europe, but it is not generally recognised
that the principal elements in sound film are the
asynchronous and not the synchronous ; moreover,
that the synchronous use is, in actual fact, only
exceptionally correspondent to natural perception.
This is not, as may first appear, a theoretical figment,
but a conclusion from observation.

For example, in actual life you, the reader, may
suddenly hear a cry for help ; you see only the
window ; you then look out and at first see nothing
but the moving traffic. But you do not hear the sound
natural to these cars and buses ; instead you hear still
only the cry that first startled you. At last you find
with your eyes the point from which the sound came ;
there is a crowd, and someone is lifting the injured
man, who is now quiet. But, now watching the man,
you become aware of the din of traffic passing, and
in the midst of its noise there gradually grows the
piercing signal of the ambulance. At this your
attention is caught by the clothes of the injured
man : his suit is like that of your brother, who, you
now recall, was due to visit you at two o'clock. In
the tremendous tension that follows, the anxiety and
uncertainty whether this possibly dying man may
not indeed be your brother himself, all sound ceases

158 PUDOVKIN

and there exists for your perceptions total silence.
Can it be two o'clock ? You look at the clock and
at the same time you hear its ticking. This is the
first synchronised moment of an image and its caused
sound since first you heard the cry.

Always there exist two rhythms, the rhythmic
course of the objective world and the tempo and
rhythm with which man observes this world. The
world is a whole rhythm, while man receives
only partial impressions of this world through his
eyes and ears and to a lesser extent through his
very skin. The tempo of his impressions varies with
the rousing and calming of his emotions, while the
rhythm of the objective world he perceives continues
in unchanged tempo.

The course of man's perceptions is like editing,
the arrangement of which can make corresponding
variations in speed, with sound just as with image.
It is possible therefore for sound film to be made
correspondent to the objective world and man's
perception of it together. The image may retain
the tempo of the world, while the sound strip follows
the changing rhythm of the course of man's percep-
tions, or vice versa. This is a simple and obvious
form for counterpoint of sound and image.

Consider now the question of straightforward
Dialogue in sound film. In all the films I have seen,
persons speaking have been represented in one of
two ways. Either the director was thinking entirely
in terms of theatre, shooting his whole speaking
group through in one shot with a moving camera.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 159

Using thus the screen only as a primitive means of
recording a natural phenomenon, exactly as it was
used in early silent films before the discovery of the
technical possibilities of the cinema had made it an
art-form. Or else, on the other hand, the director
had tried to use the experience of silent film, the art
of montage in fact, composing the dialogue from
separate shots that he was free to edit. But in this
latter case the effect he gained was just as limited
as that of the single shots taken with a moving
camera, because he simply gave a series of close-ups
of a man speaking, allowed him to finish the given
phrase on his image, and then followed that shot
with one of the man answering. In doing so the
director made of montage and editing no more than
a cold verbatim report, and switched the spectator's
attention from one speaker to another without any
adequate emotional or intellectual justification.

Now, by means of editing, a scene in which three
or more persons speak can be treated in a number of
different ways. For example, the spectator's interest
may be held by the speech of the first, and — with
the spectator's attention — we hold the close-up of
the first person lingering with him when his speech
is finished and hearing the voice of the commenced
answer of the next speaker before passing on to the
latter's image. We see the image of the second
speaker only after becoming acquainted with his
voice. Here sound has preceded image.

Or, alternatively, we can arrange the dialogue so
that when a question occurs at the end of the given

160 PUDOVKIN

speech, and the spectator is interested in the answer,
he can immediately be shown the person addressed,
only presently hearing the answer. Here the sound
follows the image.

Or, yet again, the spectator having grasped the
import of a speech may be interested in its effect.
Accordingly, while the speech is still in progress, he
can be shown a given listener, or indeed given a
review of all those present and mark their reactions
towards it.

These examples show clearly how the director, by
means of editing, can move his audience emotionally
or intellectually, so that it experiences a special
rhythm in respect to the sequence presented on the
screen.

But such a relationship between the director in
his cutting-room and his future audience can be
established only if he has a psychological insight into
the nature of his audience and its consequent
relationship to the content of the given material.

For instance, if the first speaker in a dialogue
grips the attention of the audience, the second
speaker will have to utter a number of words before
they will so affect the consciousness of the audience
that it will adjust its full attention to him. And,
contrariwise, if the intervention of the second speaker
is more vital to the scene at the moment than the
impression made by the first speaker, then the
audience's full attention will at once be riveted on
him. I am sure, even, that it is possible to build up
a dramatic incident with the recorded sound of a

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 161

speech and the image of the unspeaking listener
where the latter's reaction is the most urgent emotion
in the scene. Would a director of any imagination
handle a scene in a court of justice where a sentence
of death is being passed by filming the judge pro-
nouncing sentence in preference to recording visually
the immediate reactions of the condemned ?

In the final scenes of my first sound film Deserter
my hero tells an audience of the forces that brought
him to the Soviet Union. During the whole of the
film his worse nature has been trying to stifle his
desire to escape these forces ; therefore this moment,
when he at last succeeds in escaping them and himself
desires to recount his cowardice to his fellow-workers
is the high-spot of his emotional life. Being unable to
speak Russian, his speech has to be translated.

At the beginning of this scene we see and hear
shots longish in duration, first of the speaking hero,
then of his translator. In the process of develop-
ment of the episode the images of the translator
become shorter and the majority of his words
accompany the images of the hero, according as the
interest of the audience automatically fixes on the
latter's psychological position. We can consider
the composition of sound in this example as similar
to the objective rhythm and dependent on the actual
time relationships existing between the speakers.
Longer or shorter pauses between the voices are
conditioned solely by the readiness or hesitation of
the next speaker in what he wishes to say. But the
image introduces to the screen a new element, the

1 62 PUDOVKIN

subjective emotion of the spectator and its length
of duration ; in the image longer or shorter does
not depend upon the identity of the speaking man,
but upon the desire of the spectator to look for a
longer or shorter period. Here the sound has an
objective character, while the image is conditioned
by subjective appreciation ; equally we may have
the contrary — a subjective sound and an objective
image. As illustration of this latter combination I
cite a demonstration in the second part of Deserter ;
here my sound is purely musical. Music, I maintain,
must in sound film never be the accompaniment. It must
retain its own line.

In the second part of Deserter the image shows at
first the broad streets of a Western capital ; suave
police direct the progress of luxurious cars ; every-
thing is decorous, the ebb and flow of an established
life. The characteristic of this opening is quietness,
until the calm surface is broken by the approach of
a workers' demonstration bearing aloft their flag.
The streets clear rapidly before the approaching
demonstration, its ranks swell with every moment.
The spirit of the demonstrators is firm, and their
hopes rise as they advance. Our attention is turned
to the preparations of the police ; their horses and
motor-vehicles gather as their intervention grows
imminent ; now their champing horses charge the
demonstrators to break their ranks with flying hoofs,
the demonstrators resist with all their might and
the struggle rages fiercest round the workers' flag.
It is a battle in which all the physical strength is

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 163

marshalled on the side of the police, sometimes it
prevails and the spirit of the demonstrators seems
about to be quelled, then the tide turns and the
demonstrators rise again on the crest of the wave ;
at last their flag is flung down into the dust of the
streets and trampled to a rag beneath the horses'
hoofs. The police are arresting the workers ; their
whole cause seems lost, suppressed never to re-arise
— the welter of the fighting dies down — against the
background of the defeated despair of the workers
we return to the cool decorum of the opening of the
scene. There is no fight left in the workers. Sud-
denly, unexpectedly, before the eyes of the police
inspector, the workers' flag appears hoisted anew and
the crowd is re-formed at the end of the street.

The course of the image twists and curves, as the
emotion within the action rises and falls. Now, if
we used music as an accompaniment to this image we
should open with a quiet melody, appropriate to
the soberly guided traffic ; at the appearance of the
demonstration the music would alter to a march ;
another change would come at the police prepara-
tions, menacing the workers — here the music would
assume a threatening character ; and when the clash
came between workers and police — a tragic moment
for the demonstrators — the music would follow this
visual mood, descending ever further into themes of
despair. Only at the resurrection of the flag could
the music turn hopeful. A development of this type
would give only the superficial aspect of the scene,
the undertones of meaning would be ignored ;

164 PUDOVKIN

accordingly I suggested to the composer (Shaporin)
the creation of a music the dominating emotional
theme of which should throughout be courage and the
certainty of ultimate victory. From beginning to
end the music must develop in a gradual growth of
power. This direct, unbroken theme I connected
with the complex curves of the image. The image
succession gives us in its progress first the emotion
of hope, its replacement by danger, then the rousing
of the workers' spirit of resistance, at first successful,
at last defeated, then finally the gathering and
reassembly of their inherent power and the hoisting
of their flag. The image's progress curves like a sick
man's temperature chart ; while the music in direct
contrast is firm and steady. When the scene opens
peacefully the music is militant ; when the demon-
stration appears the music carries the spectators
right into its ranks. With its batoning by the police,
the audience feels the rousing of the workers, wrapped
in their emotions the audience is itself emotionally
receptive to the kicks and blows of the police. As
the workers lose ground to the police, the insistent
victory of the music grows ; yet again, when the
workers are defeated and disbanded, the music
becomes yet more powerful still in its spirit of
victorious exaltation ; and when the workers hoist
the flag at the end the music at last reaches its
climax, and only now, at its conclusion, does its
spirit coincide with that of the image.

What role does the music play here ? Just as the
image is an objective perception of events, so the

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 165

music expresses the subjective appreciation of this
objectivity. The sound reminds the audience that
with every defeat the fighting spirit only receives new
impetus to the struggle for final victory in the future.
It will be appreciated that this instance, where
the sound plays the subjective part in the film, and
the image the objective, is only one of many diverse
ways in which the medium of sound film allows us
to build a counterpoint, and I maintain that only
by such counterpoint can primitive naturalism be
surpassed and the rich deeps of meaning potential
in sound film creatively handled be discovered and
plumbed.

(Written for this edition and Englished by Marie Seton and I. M.)

VI

RHYTHMIC PROBLEMS IN MY FIRST
SOUND FILM

IT is sad to find that, since the introduction of
sound and the predominance of talking films,
directors both in the West and in the Soviet
Union have suddenly lost the sense of dynamic
rhythm that they had built up during the last years
of the silent cinema. It is almost impossible to-day
to find a film with the sharp dramatic rhythm of,
for instance, the Odessa Steps sequence in Potemkin,
or of certain episodes in the early picture Intolerance,
which belongs to the first period when the hitherto
mechanical film record became a creative medium.
Most of the latest sound films are characterised by
exceedingly slow development of subject and dia-
logue full of interminable pauses. Many directors
are developing a talkie style that involves the use of
explanatory words for matters that should be
conceived visually ; this kind of style introduces
elements from the Theatre into a medium where
they are out of place. Theatre has its own technique,
depending on the power of the spoken word since
it is incapable of presenting visual changes in rapid
sequence, while Cinema is based on the possibility
of presenting a variety of visual impressions in a
time and space differing from that obtaining in the
natural material recorded.

1 66

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 167

I do not believe that this change of method is
indicative of any audience change of taste. I think
that the real situation is that directors hesitate to
make experiments with sound, and particularly
hesitate to apply montage to the sound strip.

Many hold the view that, with the introduction
of sound into film, the cutting methods established
during the development of silent films must all go
by the board. The development of constructive
editing of frequent changes of shot made possible in
silent film the achievement of great richness of visual
form. The human eye is capable of perceiving,
easily and immediately, the content of a succession
of visual shots, whereas, as they point out, the ear
cannot with the same immediacy detect the signi-
ficance of alterations in sound. Accordingly, they
maintain, the rhythm of changing sound must be
much slower than need be that of changing image.
They are right, in so far as concerns the combination
with a succession of short images of a series of equally
short sound effects matched with them in a purely
naturalistic relation. Certainly it would be impos-
sible to compose the short shots of Eisenstein's
Odessa Steps sequence in Potemkin — the soldiers
shooting, the woman screaming, the children
weeping — with sound cut in a parallel manner.
Consequently, it is held, we must make each image
longer, thus diminishing the richness of the visual
form ; the rapid montage of the silent film must
give place to more leisurely scenes recorded from a
more set distance and with a relatively fixed camera

1 68 PUDOVKIN

position, the construction being linked by the spoken
word and not by the sequence of dynamically edited
images. This policy, I maintain, is the line of least
resistance, and instead of helping film to progress,
holds it back, forcing it once again into its primitive
position of mere photographic record of material
actually suited to the Theatre. There is no necessity,
in my view, to begin a sound when its corresponding
image first appears and to cut it when its image has
passed. Every strip of sound, speech, or music may
develop unmodified while the images come and go
in a sequence of short shots, or, alternatively, during
images of longer duration the sound strip may
change independently in a rhythm of its own. I
believe that it is only along these lines that the
Cinema can keep free from theatrical imitation, and
advance beyond the bounds of Theatre, for ever
limited by the supremacy of the spoken word, the
fixture to one significant position throughout of
decor and properties, the dependence of both action
and audience's attention entirely upon the actor, and
reduction of the world's wide globe to a single room
less its fourth wall.

One of the most important problems in my
Deserter was posed by the mass scenes — meetings,
demonstrations, etc. First, it is necessary to under-
stand that the mass never has been and never will
be mere quantity ; it is a differentiated quality. It
is a collection of individuals and quite different from
their sum ; each mass consists of groups, each group
of persons. These may be united by one emotion

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 169

and one thought, and in that case their mass is the
greatest force in the world. The conflicting pro-
cesses at work within the groups to produce this
result afford immediately obvious dramatic material,
and accent upon the characteristics of individuals is
an integral part of the creation of a living mass.
What real method can there be of creating this
qualitatively altered mass of individuals save by the
editing of close-ups ? I have seen a German film in
which Danton is shown speaking to the citizens of
Paris ; he was placed at a window, and all we were
allowed to know of his audience was their mass
voice, like the traditional " voices off.5' Such a
scene in a film is nothing else than a photograph of
bad Theatre.

In the first reel of Deserter I have a meeting
addressed by three persons one after the other, each
producing a complexity of reactions in their audience.
Each one is against the other two ; sometimes a
member of the crowd interrupts a speaker, sometimes
two or three of the crowd have a moment's discussion
among themselves. The whole of the scene must
move with the crowd's swaying mood, the clash of
opposing wills must be shown, to achieve these ends
I cut the sound exactly as freely as I cut the image.
I used three distinct elements. First, the speeches ;
second, sound close-ups of the interruptions — words,
snatches of phrases, from members of the crowd ;
and third, the general noise of the crowd varying in
volume and recorded independently of any image.

I sought to compose these elements by the system

170 PUDOVKIN

of montage. I took sound strips and cut, for
example, for a word of a speaker broken in half by
an interruption, for the interrupter in turn overswept
by the tide of noise coming from the crowd, for the
speaker audible again, and so on. Every sound was
individually cut and the images associated are
sometimes much shorter than the associated sound
piece, sometimes as long as two sound pieces — those
of speaker and interrupter, for example — while I
show a number of individual reactions in the
audience. Sometimes I have cut the general crowd
noise into the phrases with scissors, and I have found
that with an arrangement of the various sounds by
cutting in this way it is possible to create a clear
and definite, almost musical, rhythm : a rhythm
that develops and increases short piece by short piece,
till it reaches a climax of emotional effect that swells
like the waves on a sea.

I maintain that directors lose all reason to be
afraid of cutting the sound strip if they accept the
principle of arranging it in a distinct composition.
Provided that they are linked by a clear idea of the
course to be pursued, various sounds can, exactly
like images, be set side by side in montage. Re-
member the early days of the cinema, when directors
were afraid to cut up the visual movement on the
screen, and how Griffith's introduction of the
close-up was misunderstood and by many labelled
an unnatural and consequently an inadmissible
method. Audiences in those days even cried :
" Where are their legs ! "

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 171

Cutting was the development that first transformed
the cinema from a mechanical process to a. creative
one. The slogan Cut remains equally imperative
now that sound film has arrived. I believe that
sound film will approach nearer to true musical
rhythm than silent film ever did, and this rhythm
must derive not merely from the movement of artist
and objects on the screen, but also — and this is the
consideration most important for us to-day — from
exact cutting of the sound and arrangement of the
sound pieces into a clear counterpoint with the
image.

I worked out in fine rhythm, suitable to sound
film, a special kind of musical composition for the
May Day demonstration in Deserter. A hundred
thousand men throng the streets, the air is filled with
the echoing strains of massed bands, lifting the masses
to exuberance. Into the patchwork of sound breaks
singing, and the strains of accordions, the hooting
of motor-cars, snatches of radio noises, shouts and
huzzas, the powerful buzzing of aeroplanes. Certainly
it would have been stupid to have attempted to
create such a sound scene in the studio with
orchestras and supers.

In order to give my future audience a true
impression of this gigantic perspective of mass sound,
its echoes and its multitudinous complexities, I
recorded real material. I used two Moscow demon-
strations, those in May and November of one year,
to assemble the variety of sounds necessary for my
future montage. I recorded pieces of various music

172 PUDOVKIN

and sound, varying in their volume, transitions from
bands to crowd noises, and from hurrahs to the
whirling propellers of aeroplanes, slogans from the
radio and snatches of our songs. Just like long-shots
and close-ups in silent film. Then followed the task
of editing the thousand metres of sound to create
the hundred metres of rhythmical composition. I
tried to use the pieces like the separate instruments
that combine to form an orchestra. I recorded two
marching bands, and as passage of transition from
one to the other cut between them some dominating
sound like a mass hurrah or a whirling propeller. I
endeavoured to bring the pieces already possessing
a musical rhythm of their own into a new montage
over-rhythm.

The images that go with this sound are edited
with similar exactness, smiling workers, merry
marching youths, a handsome sailor and the girls
that flirt with him. But this sequence of images is
but one of the rhythmical lines that make up the
whole composition ; the music is never an accom-
paniment but a separate element of counterpoint ;
both sound and image preserve their own line.

Perhaps a purer example of establishing rhythm
in sound film occurs in another part of Deserter — the
docks section. Here again I used natural sounds,
heavy hammers, pneumatic drills working at different
levels, the smaller noise of fixing a rivet, voices of
sirens and the crashing crescendo of a falling chain.
All these sounds I shot on the dock-side, and I
composed them on the editing table, using various

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 173

lengths, they served to me as notes of music. As
finale of the docks scene I made a half-symbolic
growth of the ship in images at an accelerated pace,
while the sound in a complicated syncopation
mounts to an ever greater and grandiose climax.
Here I had a real musical task, and was obliged to
" feel " the length of each strip in the same spirit
as a musician " feels " the accent necessary for each
note.

I have used only real sound because I hold the
view that sound, like visual material, must be rich
in its association, a thing impossible for reconstructed
sound to be. I maintain that it is impossible arti-
ficially to establish perspective in sound ; it is
impossible, for instance, to secure a real effect of a
distant siren call in a closed studio and relatively
near the microphone. A " distant " call achieved
by a weak tone in the studio can never create the
same reality of effect as a loud blast recorded half
a mile away in the open air.

For the symphony of siren calls with which
Deserter opens I had six steamers playing in a space
of a mile and a half in the Port of Leningrad. They
sounded their calls to a prescribed plan and we
worked at night in order that we should have quiet.

Now that I have finished Deserter I am sure that
sound film is potentially the art of the future. It is
not an orchestral creation centring round music,
nor yet a theatrical dominated by the factor of the
actor, nor even is it akin to opera, it is a synthesis
of each and every element — the oral, the visual, the

174 PUDOVKIN

philosophical ; it is our opportunity to translate the
world in all its lines and shadows into a new art
form that has succeeded and will supersede all the
older arts, for it is the supreme medium in which
we can express to-day and to-morrow.

(Written for this edition and Englished by Marie Seton and I. M.)

NOTES AND APPENDICES

A.— GLOSSARIAL NOTES

IN the discussion of any technical subject it
is necessary to employ technical terms. Tech-
nical cinematographic terms afford wide oppor-
tunities for ambiguity and obscurity in two ways.
In the first place, they are usually not invented
words, but words in common use extended to em-
brace technical meanings, to the confusion of the
layman. In the second place, they vary slightly
owing to differing practices in differing countries, or
even in different studios, to the confusion of the
expert. It is therefore desirable to establish, by
definition, the sense in which technical terms have
been employed in the preceding essays.

The word Producer in the film world is properly
applied only to the business man, financial organiser,
managing director of a producing concern ; the
driving-force rather than the technical guidance
behind any given production. Producer in the
stage sense has become Director in the films. This
terminology is American in origin, but is now
universal in England also.

The word Scenario is loosely applied to almost any
written matter relating to the story preparation of
a film in any of its stages. The course of develop-
ment is roughly as follows* : The Synopsis is an

* Theme is a term of sense almost exactly congruous to its non-
specialist meaning. It never represents a written document, except
possibly in the case where the film's genesis is represented by the
producer commanding, " Make me a war-film, a film of mother-
love, or so forth."

175

176 PUDOVKIN

outline of three or four typewritten pages containing
the barest summary of character and action. It is
made for the convenience of the producer or
scenario-chooser, who may be too busy or unwilling
to study potential subjects at length. In the
adaptation of a book or a play, the synopsis repre-
sents the first stage. In the case of an original film-
story it may rather be a precis of the next stage
following.

This is the Treatment. A treatment is more exten-
sive, usually from twenty to fifty pages. Here,
although still written throughout in purely narra-
tive form, we have, already indicated by means of
a certain degree of detail in pictorial description,
the actual visual potentialities of the suggested
action. The use of the word scenario for either of
these documents is more common with the layman
than with the technician. Credit for a treatment
is given, on a title or in a technical publication,
more often by the words " Story by " than by
association with the scenario. The words " Scenario
by " imply work on a yet later stage — the shooting-
script.

The Shooting-script is the scenario in its final
cinematograph form, with all its incidents and
appearances broken up in numbered sequence into
the separate images from which they will be later
represented. These separate images are called
Script-scenes, listed, in the typewritten abbreviation
of a usual shooting-script, simply as Scenes — e.g.
Scene i, Scene 2, etc. The words appearing upon
the screen are also listed, as Main-title (the name of
the film, and credit- titles), Sub-titles (never " cap-
tions " — this is a layman's term). Inserts, writings that

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 177

are part of a scene, and Superimposed titles, a term
carrying its own meaning.

It is evident from Pudovkin's essay on the scenario
that an intermediate stage, quite unusual in England
or America, intervenes in U.S.S.R. between the
purely narrative treatment and its complete cinema-
tographic analysis, the shooting-script. In this stage
the titles stand already numbered, so do the separate
tiny incidents, but there is no indication yet of the
images to be selected to compose them. Such an
incident Pudovkin terms a " scene,55 using the word
almost in the sense in which it is used in a classical
French play, to indicate not merely a change of
place, but even a change of circumstance such as
the entrance or exit of a player. To avoid confusion,
the word scene has been avoided in this text, being
rendered by " incident,55 except in the example
given of this stage of treatment.*

The Sequence is a convenient division, into a series
of which the action naturally falls. The sequences
are already feelable even in the purely narrative
treatment, and may each contain numbers of inci-
dents, or scenes (in the Pudovkin sense) . The sequence
of the stealing of the Princess embraces all the business
of running away with her, possibly involving inter-
actions at several different geographical points. The
" scene 5> (Pudovkin5s sense) of the Princess being stolen
probably covers only the actual carrying her out of
her bedroom ; dragging her down the stairs would
be another " scene 55 (incident, in the phraseology

* Those interested to study further the Soviet method of writing
scenarios are referred to two published examples : that of Eisenstein
and Alexandre v's " The General Line" published as a booklet in
German, and extracts from Eisenstein, Alexandrov and Montagu's
u An American Tragedy,*' published bv the late H. A. Potamkin in
" Close-Up."

178 PUDOVKIN

I have employed) . The separate parts that compose
such a " scene," the as yet further indivisible atoms
of the film-structure,* are termed variously accord-
ing to their function considered at the moment. In
their philosophic function we term them separate
images ; materially, separate pieces of celluloid ; func-
tionally, in the shooting-script, script-scenes (abb.
scenes) ; as separate tasks upon the floor of the studio,
or as separate parts of a finished, edited film, Shots ;
while in the cutting-room we find that each is
represented by several subsimilar pieces, varying in
number according to the number of times its action
was respectively shot, spoken of as the several Takes
of one shot.

On the floor of the studio we Shoot or Take the
shots. The latter expression is perhaps the more
common in speaking of a script-scene in single aspect
(" How many times did we take that scene ? "), the
former as a general term (" We shot ten scenes before
lunch " ; " We could not shoot to-day, because of
fog "). The word Turn, a transliteration of which
is used in several European languages instead of
shoot, is used in English only of the special activity
of a cameraman (" Who turned for you on that
picture? "). Note that in our last example Picture
is used to mean whole film. This sense is slang rather
than technical. The picture should properly imply
the composition space of an image f — i.e., Picture-
shape, meaning screen-shape. The camera Set-up

* The actual subdivisibility of the atom is in film paralleled only
by those instances (double exposure and the like) in which a single
shot is blended from the effects of more than one separate camera-
action.

t The composition space termed picture on the floor is termed a
frame in the cutting-room, though its height, as a unit of the length of

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 179

refers to its position in relation to the shot object,
not only its distance from the object, but also its
angle to it. If we alter the one or the other we alter
the set-up. The Camera-angle, in this sense, is the
relation between the vertical and horizontal axes of
the object shot on the one hand, and the plane of the
film at the moment of shooting on the other. The
distances of the camera from the shot object are
technically designated as Long-Shot, Mid-Shot, and
Close- Up, with their manifold supplementaries. No
two studios, directors, or scenarists will agree abso-
lutely about the measure of these shots, which have
constancy only in their relation to one another. One
technician will describe a distance showing the figure
from crown to knee as a mid-shot, another as a
medium long-shot. The full tally is something like
distance-shot, long-shot, medium long-shot, mid-shot, semi-
close-up, close-up, big close-up (or, in the appropriate
special case, big head).

It is important to gain a clear conception of the
activities embraced here by the word Editing. The
word used by Pudovkin, the German and French
word, is montage. Its only possible English equivalent
is editing. But in England, in the trade, the editor is
too often conceived of as a humble person, called in
after the damage, or good, has been done upon the
floor, to accomplish a relatively mechanical task
upon material the effect of which has been already
settled. The word editing, as used here in its correct
sense, has a far wider, constructive application. It

the picture, has then become more significant than its general shape.
The frame, three-quarters of an inch high on the actual piece of
standard size celluloid, is the concrete unit, repetition of which gives,
in projection of a shot, the illusion of movement.

180 PUDOVKIN

covers manifold activities, not only those which
compose in the cutting-room an appearance from
single images, but those which, in the work on the
script, predetermine and select those images and
their sequence which will be necessary to form the
later appearance proposed. In its later uses by the
Russians — and here we often retain montage — it
implies mounting or amounting of all the affective
impulses of sound or vision that in one way or another
amountedly affect the spectator. The degree to
which the verb monter, to build or edit, is still compre-
hended in England as implying little beyond the
relatively mechanical concept to cut, indicates the
degree to which an understanding of the creative
process implied by its wider sense may be fruitful
for the future advancement of the industry.

B.— SPECIAL NOTES

(i) NOTES TO " THE FILM SCENARIO AND ITS THEORY "

I . It is interesting to note that at least three major
films turned out so long that they were issued in two
parts intended to be booked at successive weeks :
Fritz Lang's Nibelungs {Siegfried, called Nibelungs in
England, and Kriemhild's Revenge, called in England
The She-Devil) ; the same director's Dr. Mabuse and
Gustav Molander's Jerusalem from the Selma Lager-
lof story. American super-productions of unusual
length concede an interval at half-way on their
premier showing, and are shortened subsequently
for general release. The over-long Stroheim pictures

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 181

Greed for Universal and Wedding March for Para-
mount were ruthlessly cut down and the wholes have
never been seen. On the Continent, where single-
feature programmes are the rule, a film usually
attains 9,000 feet— -if hours. In England and
U.S.A., with the habit of double programmes, only
exceptional films attain 90 minutes and the usual
length is 70. {p. 9.)

2. Neglect of this rule, to establish clearly the
theme first of all and select all incident only to
express it, was almost certainly the root cause of the
failure of Pudovkin's penultimate film, A Simple Case.
Not all its later devised ingenious embellishments
could save it, the fault was in its genesis, (p. 10.)

3. This example may be obscure to the reader
not grounded in reformist or revolutionary politics.
To a Russian an anarchist is a definite type — shock-
headed, piercing eyes, spouting, impractical — in
vivid contrast to the communist ideal of an athletic,
disciplined, handy-man, that the hero finally be-
comes. The replacement in the scenario of a vaguely
turbulent character by an anarchist is thus, to a
Russian, a gain in definiteness. It is as if a character,
vague and intangible, were described in an English
scenario as being " in the army." By tightening
in revision the character is made a sergeant-major.
Everyone in England knows what a sergeant-major
is like ; the other persons in the story can be readily
characterised by their reactions to him. The gain in
definiteness is obvious, {p. 11.)

4. How far and under what conditions are
" spoken phrases " admissible in sound films ? The
author gives his view on this question in essays VII
and VIII. {p. 14.)

1 82 PUDOVKIN

5. Here in the original follows a sentence : " But
it is necessary to know them, and the reader's atten-
tion is recommended to the short bibliography at the
end of this sketch." A fruitless recommendation, for,
alas, the printer omitted the bibliography, (/>. 17.)

6. The classic example of the creation by ex-
traneous methods of a tension not implicit for most
audiences in the given dramatic material is the
Separator Sequence in The General Line. {p. 18.)

7. Scenes and script-scenes. Refer to Glossarial
Notes, (p. 21.)

8. Here a wide textual alteration has been made.
In the original the author gives guidance for sensing
the amount of material required in each reel (rather
than in the scenario as a whole), for " it must be
borne in mind that each reel must, to a certain
extent, represent a self-contained part of the picture.
In order that the short interval necessary for chang-
ing the reel in exhibition shall not break up the unity
of impression, effort must be made to distribute the
material in such a way that the intervals occur at
the place of junction of one just completed part of
action to the beginning of the next. In a technically
well-constructed scenario the conclusion of a reel is
used as a special method completing the action,
analogous to the dropping of the curtain at the end
of an act in the Theatre."

These remarks were conditioned by the fact that,
at the time of the sketch, and even now, most places
of film exhibition in Russia are equipped with only
one projector. The conception of the reel as a
self-contained dramatic part has no value for the
producer in Western Europe and America, where
two-projector exhibition is universal, unless perhaps

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 183

for the amateur. It should be noted, indeed, that in
production for two-projector exhibition the reverse
requirement obtains. The cutter should take care
not to divide his reels at the end of a sequence. A
short footage is almost always lost to view in each
change-over, owing to the precautions taken by the
operator to avoid at all costs the shattering appear-
ance on the screen of the tag " End of Reel X " or
" Reel X + 1." For example, the penultimate and
last reels of Two Days. Here the Russian, relying on
his interval, shows at the end of the penultimate reel
a short shot of the father kneeling by his hanged son ;
slow fade-out. Interval for lacing up the next reel.
Fade-in, father rising to his feet. We are aware that
he has been long dazed with sorrow, and has at last
reached a critical impulse, to fire the house of his
son's executioners. On a Western apparatus the
change-over swallows all, or the best part of, the
fades. The father appears merely to indulge in a
more or less irrational kneeling-down and almost
immediate standing-up, and much of the " Tight-
ness " of the psychology of his impulse is lost. Care
should be taken, therefore, by the cutter to divide his
reels preferably at a place of cross-cut shots where
loss of perhaps the last foot of one and the first foot
of another will be insignificant, {p. 21.)

9. Note that in a talking-film script, the dialogue
is set out bunched up on the right-hand side of the
page, as in a play, not between the scenes and level
with them, as the spoken sub-titles here. {p. 21.)

10. Refer to Glossarial Notes, {p. 23.)

11. A girl member of the Young Communist
League, (p. 23.)

12. This paragraph remains equally true for

1 84 PUDOVKIN

sound films in Pudovkin's view. So long as an image
appears it should not be casual, but selected for its
expression ; similarly speech should not be casual —
the speech that might happen to be uttered — but
rigidly selected and arranged for maximum ex-
pression. See his essays VII and VIII. (/?. 27.)

13. The principle has a useful application, by
converse inference, for the editor (the cutter and
titler, called in after the damage is done) as well as
for the scenarist. Suppose he be confronted with
this weak scene of Olga walking out on her husband,
already made, he can slightly strengthen it by
weakening the preceding title — that is, making it
more indefinite. Thus : " Olga, unable to endure
her hard-hearted husband, came to a crucial
decision." {p. 33.)

14. A long experience of titling enables me to be
not contradictory, but perhaps more definite. Three
considerations affect titles ; they are, in order of
descending importance : (a) content, (b) style,
(c) compression.

The absolutely clear significance of the content for
the development of the action is paramount. That
satisfied, the use of phraseology in spoken titles
helping to characterise a speaker or his mood, or of
style in continuity titles wedded to the momentary
spirit of the film, may be exceedingly valuable.
Compression, though to be considered only after the
other two desiderata, is highly important ; though
few spectators are analphabets, reading is, to many
of them, an exercise, and, if the screen be full of
type, an astonishing number make no effort to begin
on it at all. (p. 33.)

15. Methods of measuring title-length vary. That

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 185

given here, though used in several studios, is an
excessively large approximation. A more exact
allowance is one foot for each of the first five words,
and one foot for each subsequent pair of words. This
presupposes that a material part of the time taken
in reading a card is taken up, firstly, in adjustment
to the first appearance of the card, secondly, in
adjustment to each new word ; length of words is
regarded as temporally relatively unimportant, for
most long words are recognised when only a part of
their length has been spelt out. For this view there
is experimental support. (/>. 33.)

16. To it belongs also the science of selection of
fount (or script), tone, and background, (/>. 34.)

17. To avoid interruption of the flow of rapid
action by length in a title, the Russians introduced
the method of " split-titles," that is, distribution of
the essential content to be rendered on to two or
three separated cards ; each is thus shown short in
footage and the tempo undisturbed. Still faster, in
his penultimate film, Pudovkin cut alternate frames
of a title and a picture in battle scenes. This gave
an effect of almost machine-gun rapidity. Alternate
frame effects can also be got, perhaps more easily,
in what is called an " optical printer." {p. 35.)

18. The text is here slightly amended. The author
gives as his simple form the iris-in and iris-out,
mentioning what is called the fade only as a variant.
Irises were used far more in the past than to-day,
the fade has now been found to be less distracting
to the spectator. The mere reversal of their respec-
tive positions, with litde phrase alteration, is effective
in modernising the passage, {p. 35.)

19. See Note 18. {p. 36.)

1 86 PUDOVKIN

20. These effects have lately come very much
into fashion ; they are called " wipes," and are most
usually effected not in the camera but on the printer.

(A 36.)

21. The mix need not be effected at once in the
camera ; it can be made subsequendy in the
printing, or by various trick processes. As a matter
of fact, however — though there is no theoretical
reason why it should be so — such processes and
printing machines are, in practice, nearly always
imperfect, and result in a loss of photographic
quality, (/>. 37.)

22. Accomplished by means of a camera accessory,
such a shot is termed a " pan." Accomplished by
free-hand, it is usually termed a " swinging " shot.

^•370

23. There is strong difference on this point. A
costly process, owing to the time taken for the
complex preparation of such a shot, the prodigal
Americans use it more and more frequently, for
such purposes as the following of a character along
passages, up flights of stairs, and so forth. Tracking
(and panning) are in disfavour with the left-wing
Russian school, for, naturalists, they hold such
methods easily tend to remind the spectator of the
presence of the camera, {p. 38.)

24. The same effect is often obtained by gauzes
or cigarette smoke in front of the lens. {p. 38.)

25. Scenes and script-scenes. Refer to Glossarial
Notes, (p. 39.)

26. A further wide textual alteration. Discussion
was given of the editing of the reel (" each reel is
a more or less complete whole, corresponding, to
a certain degree, to an act upon the stage ") and of

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 187

the scenario separately. In considering reels, the
author repeated the desideratum that their material
must be independent and self-contained, though now
adding that, with two-projector exhibition, this is
unnecessary. In considering the scenario as a whole,
the author suggested the various size of reels as
a means of sparing to the end the energy of the
spectator. The early ones long, while he is fresh, the
middle reels shorter, and the last reel, if necessary,
longer again, so that the pure final action need not be
interrupted by new lacing-up. These observations
are significant in Western Europe and America for
amateurs only. Refer to Note 8. {p. 45.)

27. The author here repeated, almost word for
word, the account of those scenes given on p. 19.
(A 49.)

(ii) NOTES TO " FILM DIRECTOR AND FILM MATERIAL "

28. The great significance here alluded to by
Pudovkin is the economic consequence that cost of
performance becomes a mere fraction of cost of
production. Whereas in the theatre or concert hall,
chief analogies in the entertainment industry, costs
of repeat performance are relatively much nearer
original production costs. This, not anything in their
respective intrinsic possibilities of creative method,
determines the paramountcy of theatre for esoteric
groups, and puts the cinema as a mass art out on
its own with limitless financial resources, (/>. 52.)

29. The original here speaks of the impossibility
of approaching " scenes," using the word in the
classical French sense. See Glossarial Notes, {p. 57.)

30. The net is " cheated." Any movement or

1 88 PUDOVKIN

object outside the picture-frame or otherwise un-
remarked is said to be " cheated." {p. 57.)

3 1 . Communist mixed Boy and Girl Scouts, (p. 58.)

32. By a curious error of mistranslation on the
part of the German renters of this film it has been
customary to refer to this warship as an armoured
cruiser (Panzerkreuzer) . Both in actuality and in the
Russian name of the film the Potemkin is a pre-
dreadnought battleship, the full name of which is
Potemkin Tavritcheski (ex Pantelimon, ex Kniaz Potemkin
Tavritcheski) . It was completed in 1900, and its
details are given as follows : Displacement, 12,480
metric tons ; complement, 741 ; guns, four 12",
sixteen 6", fourteen 11 -pounders, six 3-pounders ;
5 torpedo-tubes, speed, about 16 knots. It closely
resembles those English classes of pre-dreadnought
— Bulwark, Formidable, Majestic, Canopus — of which so
many examples were lost during the war. (p. 67.)

33. These are the marble steps leading from the
statue of the Due de Richelieu on the boulevard to
the docks below, (p. 67.)

34. In the German edition the translators here
inserted Ruttman's Berlin as a film of this kind. This
is absurd ; Berlin was most carefully scripted and
exactly executed, and the instance was repudiated
by Pudovkin when brought to his attention, (p. 72.)

35. The counter to this rule is, of course, Dziga-
Vertov with his theory of the " Kino-eye." Dziga-
Vertov holds that the director should stage nothing,
simply going about quietly and unobservedly
accumulating material with the camera, his " Kino-
eye," and that only such a film as one in which the
director's " interference " with the natural course
of events is limited to choosing and eliminating

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 189

details can properly be called documentary. It is
all a matter of degree. At the one pole there is the
arbitrary, staged and acted event — Chang or the
sandstorm in Turksib, at the other the lurking
about the streets of Ruttmann in Berlin or
Dziga-Vertov. But even Dziga-Vertov would doubt-
less repeat and " interfere " in the sense of the next
text paragraph to secure certain material, (p. 74.)

36. In England it is the whole work of one member
of the producing team, the " continuity " or floor-
secretary, to aid the director to keep watch on
correspondences of this kind. (p. 79.)

37. Recall that the director's field will alter with
every lens. Modification of the amount of space to
be embraced may often be effected not by change
of set-up but by change of lens. (p. 80.)

38. In " The Dynamic Square," Eistenstein
eloquently pleads for all those male shapes utterly
banned from proper screen expression by its at present
accepted frame, (p. 81.)

39. The Mechanism of the Brain, Reel One. (p. 83.)

40. At the former Imperial summer residence in
Livadea, near Yalta, (p. 89.)

41. Pudovkin is himself a declared and practising
disciple of the American Griffith in this matter.
Compare the steady, inexorable flow of spring river
ice and the marching, demonstrating workers in
Mother ; compare the storm, existing for the story
not in reality but only in emotion, that sweeps away
the English at the finale of Jenghiz Khan. This last
is his most daring and remarkable achievement. For
the risk of introducing an emotional environmental
effect is that it is much less likely than a real one
to be apprehended unconsciously by the audience ;

i go PUDOVKIN

it may become a symbol, requiring conscious effort
for comprehension, and risk passing the audience
by, e.g., the Regeneration Sequence in Simple Case.
(/>. IOI.)

42. Recall again the Separator Sequence, General
Line, Reel Two. (p. 104.)

43. Example : The grimacing and painted Krauss
standing on a real hill, pretending to influence a real
fox, real foxhounds and horses ; a preposterous scene
in The Student of Prague, (p. 106.)

44. It requires such an abundance of stock on
the regular pay-roll as can only be afforded by the
wealthiest film-company. The herding of extras
into a film-city, in which all companies centralise
their studios, has, however, something of the same
effect, (p. 108.)

45. Many historians of the Theatre would dis-
agree, (p. no.)

46. For Pudovkin's views on the proper relation
of speeches and movements in dialogue film see
essays VII and VIII. (p. 1 15.)

47. Remember also the face of the Mongol in the
finale of The Heir to Jenghiz Khan. {p. 119.)

48. Soft-focus, refer note 24 (p. 122).

49. This is a considerable over-estimate for the
conditions of commercial film production in the
West. Companies with big studio investments hate
going on location ; they must keep their studios
occupied to cover their overheads, (p. 129).

50. This, of course, the elimination of the supere-
rogatory, is what makes the Close-up the keystone
of the whole power and effectiveness of the cinema.
A measure — the ultimate possible — of the uncon-
sciousness of the West and its innocence of theory

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 191

was seen at that meeting of the Academy of Motion
Picture Arts and Sciences, the would-be learned
society of Hollywood, at which were delivered
Eisenstein's remarks on " The Dynamic Square."
This meeting was called to consider Wide Film.
A prominent cameraman from Fox was recounting
his experiences. Although one could not approach
close enough to the subject to secure a close-up, he
declared this was no drawback, for the image on
the screen was so large that the characters5 expres-
sions could none the less be clearly discerned even
in mid-shot ! Despite the presence of a multitude
of directors and leading technicians from every
studio, this astounding appraisal excited no remark.
To this day, though their pragmatism has taught them
to drop Wide Film after stinging losses, the big
companies are probably quite mystified and unable
to account for the public's indifference to it. (p. 129.)

51. There is a growing tendency, alas, in England
and America for the director too to leave, his picture
at this point passing to an " editor." It derives from
commercial envy of the " quickies," and must tend,
with them, to standardisation and mechanicalisation
of style, (/>. 136.)

52. In spite of this address it should be noted that
Pudovkin does very often use actors. Inkishinov,
Baranovskaia, Batalov, Baturin, are examples of
more or less experienced actors in leading roles in
his films. Other equally important parts are, it is
true, played by complete novices and he certainly
handles them all, experienced and otherwise, with
the technique prescribed here for the handling of
types. Dovzhenko uses types rather more, and only
Eisenstein invariably, {p. 137).

ig2 PUDOVKIN

53. Various means of obtaining " Close-ups in
Time " have been used previously by directors other
than the quoted Epstein. Turning the camera fast —
though not in actual exaggerated slow-motion as in
these experiments — is not at all uncommon for
certain underlinings. Some of Fairbanks athletic
feats were probably recorded in this way to em-
phasise their grace. Eisenstein, on the other hand,
has always emphasised his moments by repetitive
cutting. Recall the repetition in the enthroning in
the tractor in the last reel of General Line, in the
bridge scene of October, and as for the Odessa Steps
scene in Potemkin — you will find that the soldiers
march down this whole length two or three times if
all the descent shots are added together. These are
other technical means to the same end as the
experiments in A Simple Case here described, (p. 146).

C— V. I. PUDOVKIN :

ICONOGRAPHY

The Mechanism of the Brain (Mejrabpom-russ, 1925)

Technical scientific direction : Professor L. N.
Voskresenski and Professor D. S. Fursikov.

Technical cinematographic direction : V. I.
Pudovkin.

Physiological experiments and operations : Pro-
fessor D. S. Fursikov.

Animal-life direction : L. N. Danilov.

Conditional reflex experiments on children :
Professor N. I. Krasnogorski.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 193

Child-life direction : Professor A. S. Durnovo.
Diagrams : I. Vano, D. Tcherkess, V. Merku-

lov.
Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

A documentary film illustrative of compara-
tive mental processes, more particularly of the
progress in knowledge of conditioned reflexes
attained by workers in Professor Pavlov's labora-
tory at the Academy of Sciences, Leningrad.
Regarded as unsuitable for public presentation
by the B.B. of F.C., February 1929. First
exhibited in England, privately, to the Royal
Society of Medicine (Neurological Section),
March, 1929.

2. The Chess Player (Mejrabpom-russ, 1926).

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

A short comedy in which, by means of an
experiment in cutting and editing, J. R. Capa-
blanca is made to appear to play a part.

3. Mother (Mejrabpom-russ, 1926).

Based on the story by Maxim Gorki.

Scenario : N. A. Zarkhi.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Art Direction : S. V. Koslovski.

Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

Cast : The father— A. Tchistiakov* ; the mother

— Vera Baranovskaia ; the son — Nikolai Bata-

lov.

Baranovskaia and Batalov are professionals,
Tchistiakov is an accountant of Mejrabpom,
he has appeared in each of Pudovkin's subse-
quent films. A small part in the film, that of a

* Kenneth Macpherson, in Bryher's Film Problems of Soviet Russia
(q.v.), identifies this character as the actor Leinstiakov.

194 PUDOVKIN

mild, bespectacled officer, is played by Pudov-
kin. First performed in England, privately, at
the Film Society, October 1928. Regarded as
unsuitable for public presentation by the B.B.
of F.C., November 1928.

4. The End of St. Petersburg (Mejrabpom-russ, 1927).

Scenario : N. A. Zarkhi.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Art Direction : S. V. Koslovski.

Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

Cast : The Bolshevik — A. Tchistiakov ; his

wife — V. Baranovskaia ; the peasant boy —

I. Tchuvelev ; Lebedeu — V. Obolenski ; a

jingo — V. Tsoppi.

The peasant boy is played by a peasant,
whose brother appears, also as a peasant boy,
in the blackleg scene. The part of his preg-
nant mother is played by a peasant woman.
The stockbrokers are all former stockbrokers.
Obolenski similarly a member of the former
governing class. First performed in England,
privately, at the Film Society, February 1929.

5. The Heir to Jenghiz Khan (Mejrabpom-film, 1928).

Based on a story by Novokshenov.

Scenario : O. Brik.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Art Direction : S. V. Koslovski and Aronson.

Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

Cast : The Mongol — V. Inkishinov ; his father —
I. Inkishinov ; the Partisan leader — A. Tchistia-
kov ; the Commandant — L. Dedintsev ; his
wife — L. Billinskaia ; his daughter — Anna Suja-
kevitch ; a fur-trader — V. Tsoppi ; a soldier
— K. Gurniak ; a missionary — R. Pro.

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 195

The four last-named actors are professionals.
Inkishinov is assistant producer in the Meyer-
hold Theatre. His father in the film is played
by his actual father, on the location in which he
has always lived. The Mongols and Mongolian
ceremonies are actual. The film was regarded
as unsuitable for public presentation by the B.B.
of F.C., August 1929. First presented in
England, privately, at the Film Society, February

1930.

6. The Story of a Simple Case (Mejrabpom-film, 193 1).

Theme : M. Koltsova.

Scenario : A. Rzheshevski.

Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.

Photography : G. Kabalov.

Cast : (Prologue) Worker — A. Gortchilin ; his

wife — Tchekulayeva ; son — M. Kashtelian ;

(Story) Uncle Sasha — A. Tchistiakov ; Paul

Langovoi — A. Baturin ; Fedya £heltikov — V.

Kuzmitch ; Masha Langovoi — E. Rogulina ;

the second wife — M. Belousova.

Baturin is a concert-singer ; Kuzmitch
actually a Red Army Officer ; Belousova a
Professor of Psychology. The film was first
presented in England, privately, at the Film
Society, May 1933 ; it has been withdrawn in
the U.S.S.R. It was at first provisionally named
Life is Grand,

7. Deserter (Mejrabpom-film, 1933).

Scenario : N. Agadjanova-Shutko, M. Krasno-

stavski, A. Lezebnikov.
Direction : V. I. Pudovkin.
Art Direction : A. Kozlovski.
Photography : A. N. Golovnia.

1 96 PUDOVKIN

Sound Recording : E. Nesterov.

Music : I. Shaporin.

Sound System : Tagephon.

Cast : Boris Livanov, M. Aleshchenko, A. Bes-

perotov, S. Gerasimov, I. Gliser, K. Gurniak,

A. Konsovski, V. Kovrigin, I. Lavrov, T.

Makarova, T. Svashenko, A. Tchistiakov,

V. Uralski.

D.— INDEX OF NAMES

Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences,

Hollywood, 191
Academy of Sciences, Leningrad, 193
Adventures of Mr. West, The : L. V. Kuleshov,

Mejrabpom-russ, 1924, x, 18
Agadjanova-Shutko, N., scenarist, 195
Aleshchenko, M., actor, 196
Alexandrov, G. V., film director, 177
America : D. W. Griffith, United Artists, 1923, 98,

in, 135
"American Tragedy, An," scenario, 177
Aristotle, viii

Arnheim, Rudolf, writer, xi
Aronson, art director, 194

B

BalAzs, Bela, writer, 8

Baranovskaia, Vera, actress, 191, 193, 194

Barthelmess, Richard, actor, 100, 129

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 197

Batalov, Nikolai, actor, 191, 193

Battleship " Potemkin" The : S. M. Eisenstein, Sov-

kino, 1925, 67, 85, 87, 97, 115, 119, 122, 126, 166,

167, 192
Baturin, A., actor, 191, 195
Belousova, M., actress, 195

Berlin : W. Ruttmann, Fox Europa, 1928, 188, 189
Besperotov, A., actor, 196
Beyond the Law : not identified, 131
Billinskaia, L., actress, 194
Brik, O., scenarist, 194
British Board of Film Censors, 193, 194, 195
Brunei, Adrian, x, xi
Bryher, writer, 193
Buchanan, Andrew, film director, xi

C

Capablanga, Jos£ Raoul, 193

Chang : M. C. Cooper and E. B. Schoedsack, Para-
mount, 1927, 189

Chaplin, Charles, vii, 105

Chess Player, The (P.), 193

" Cinema," journal, London, 145

" Cinema," journal, New York, xi

" Cinema Quarterly," journal, xi

" Cinematic Principle and the Japanese Theatre,
The," essay, xi

" Close-Up," journal, xi, 177

Colon, Cristobal, ix

Cupid, 88

D

Daddy : Sol Lesser (Jackie Coogan), First National)
1923, 68

198 PUDOVKIN

Danilov, L. N., director of Zoological Park, Lenin-
grad, 192
Danton, Georges Jacques, 169
Days of Struggle, The : Perestiani, 1920, x
Dedintsev, L., actor, 194

Deserter (P.), 161, 162, 168, 169, 171, 172, 173, 195
" Detective Work in the G.I.K.," essay, xi
Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler: F. Lang, Ufa, 1922, 180
" Doing without Actors," essay, xi
Dovzhenko, Alexander, film director, ix, 191
Durnovo, Professor A. S., psychologist, 193
" Dynamic Square, The," address, xi, 189, 191
Dziga-Vertov, film director, 188, 189

Einstein, Albert, ix

Eisenstein, S. M. (correctly transliterated Eizen-

shtein), ix, xi, 67, 87, 88, 148, 167, 177, 189, 191,

192
End of St. Petersburg, The (P.), xv, xvi, 194
Epstein, Jean, film director, 152, 192
Ermler, Friedrich, film director, ix
" Experimental Cinema," journal, xi

Fairbanks, Douglas, 105, 192

Fall of the House of Usher, The : J. Epstein, Epstein

Productions, 1929, 153
Famine : not identified, 34
" Film," book, xi
" Film Art," journal, xi
" Film Problems of Soviet Russia," book, 193

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 199

" Filmregie and Filmmanuskript," book, xviii
Fraenkel, Heinrich, x
Film Society, ix, 137, 145, 194, 195
" Film Weekly," journal, xviii
Fox, film producers, 191

Friedland, Georg and Nadia, translators, xviii
Fursikov, Professor D. S., of Professor Pavlov's
laboratory, 192

G

GARDIN, V. R., FILM DIRECTOR, X

Gay Canary, The : L. V. Kuleshov, Mejrabpom-film.

1928, x
" General Line, The," book, 177
General Line, The : S. M. Eisenstein, Sovkino, 1929,

148, 182, 190, 192
Gerasimov, S., actor, 196
Gish, Lilian, actress, 100, in
Gliser, L, actor, 196
Gogol, Nikolai, 60
Goldman, Hazel, xi

Golovnia, Anatolia N., cameraman, 193, 194, 195
Gorki, Maxim, 193
Gortchilin, A., actor, 195
Greed (from " McTeague ") : E. Stroheim, Metro-

Goldwyn, 1923, 181
Griffith, David Wark, 19, 20, 65, 67, 86, 98, 100,

105, 106, in, 118, 122, 127, 129, 135, 170, 189
Gurniak, K., actor, 194, 196

H

Hammer and Sickle, The : V. R. Gardin, 1921, x
Heir to Jenghiz Khan, The (P.), 142, 189, 190, 194
Hellstern, Eileen, x

200 PUDOVKIN

I

INKISHINOV, I., ACTOR, 1 94

Inkishinov, V., actor, 191, 194, 195

Intolerance: D. W. Griffith, David Wark Griffith

Corporation, 1916, 7, 19, 49, 65, III, 166
Isle of Lost Ships, The : Maurice Tourneur (Milton

Sills and Anna Q,. Nilsson), First National, 1923,

J

Jerusalem : G. Molander, Nordwesti, 1926, 180

K
Kabalov, G., cameraman, 195
Kashtelian, M., actor, 195
" Kino-Eye, The," theory, 188
Kinopetchat, publishing organisation, 50, 136
Koltsova, M., writer, 195
Konsovski, A., actor, 196
Koslovski, S. V., art director, 193, 194
Kovrigin, V., actor, 196
Kozintsev, G., film director, ix
Kozlovski, A., art director, 195
Krasnogorski, Professor N. I., psychologist, 192
Krasnostavski, M., scenarist, 195
Krauss, Werner, actor, 190
Kriemhild's Revenge : see The Nibelungs
Kuleshov, L. V., viii, x, 60, 61, 117, 138, 139, 140
Kuzmitch, V., actor, 195

L
Lagerlof, Selma, writer, 180
Lang, Fritz, film director, 180
Lavrov, I., actor, 196

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 201

Leather Pushers, The (Reginald Denny), Universal,

1922, 29, 127
Leinstiakov, actor, 193
Lezebnikov, A., scenarist, 196
Lichtbildbuehne, publishers, x, xviii
Life is Grand : see The Story of a Simple Case
Livanov, Boris, actor, 195

Living Corpse, The : F. Otsep, Prometheus, 1929, x
Lloyd, Harold, actor, 105
Love and Sacrifice : see America
Lubitsch, Ernst, film director, vii

M

MagPhail, Angus, x

Macpherson, Kenneth, writer, 193

Makarova, T., actress, 196

Marsh, Mae, actress, 106, in, 119

Mechanism of the Brain, The (P.), 189, 192

Mejrabpom-film, producing organisation, 194, 195

Mejrabpom-russ, (see Mejrabpom-film), 192, 193,

194
Mendel, Abbot Gregor, vii
Merkulov, V., animator, 193
Meyerhold, Vsevolod, theatrical producer, 195
Molander, Gustaf, film director, 180
Montagu, I., xviii, 145, 154, 165, 174, 177
Mosjukhin, Ivan, actor, 140
Moskvin, Ivan, actor, 114
Mother (P.), xvii, 144, 189, 193

N

Nesterov, E., sound recordist, 196
Nibelungs, The : F. Lang, Ufa, 1924, 180

202 PUDOVKIN

Nolbandov, S. S., x
Novokshenov, author, 194

O

Obolenski, V., actor, 194

" Observer, The," journal, 154

October: S. M. Eisenstein, Sokvino, 1927, 192

Old and the New, The : see The General Line

Orphans of the Storm, The : D. W. Griffith, United

Artists, 1921, in
Otsep, Fiodor, film director, x

Paramount, film producers, 181

Pavlov, Professor I. P., 193

Perestiani, film director, x

Peter the Great, xvi

Pickford, Mary, 105, 106

Poe, E. A., writer, 153

" Principles of Film Form, The," essay, xi

Postmaster, The : Y. A. Jeliabujski, Mejrabpom-russ,

i925>. IJ4
Potamkin, H. A., writer, 177

Pro, R., actor, 194

Procrustes, viii

Pudovkin, V. I., viii, ix, xi, 177, 179, 181, 184, 185,

187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195

Ray of Death, The : L. V. Kuleshov, Mejrabpom-
russ, 1925, 104
Remnants of a Wreck, The : not identified, 97

ON FILM TECHNIQUE 203

Richelieu, Armand Emmanuel du Plessis, Due def

188
Rogulina, E., actress, 195
Royal Society of Medicine, 193
Ruttmann, Walter, 188, 189
Rzheshevski, A., scenarist, 195

Samson, 106

Saturday Night : Cecil B. de Mille (Conrad Nagel and

Leatrice Joy), Famous Players-Lasky, 1922, 14
Saviour, St., 60
Seton, Marie, xi, 165, 174
Shaporin, L, composer, 164, 196
She-Devil, The : see The Mbelungs
Siegfried : see The Mbelungs
" Sichtbare Mensch, Der," book, 8
Stevens, H. C, translator, 154
Storm over Asia : see The Heir to Jenghiz Khan
Story of a Simple Case, The (P.), 181, 190, 192, 195
Strike : S. M. Eisenstein, Sovkino, 1925, 49, 127
Stroheim, Erich, film director, 180
Student of Prague, The : Henrik Galeen (Conrad

Veidt), Sokal, 1926, 190
Sujakevitch, Anna, actress, 194
Svashenko, T., actor, 196

T

Tagephon, sound system, 196
Tchekulayeva, actress, 195
Tcherkess, D., animator, 193
Tchistiakov, A., actor, 193, 194, 195, 196
Tchuvelev, I., actor, 194

204 PUDOVKIN

Ten Days that Shook the World : see October

Tisse, EduarcL cameraman, 85

Tol' able David : Henry King (Richard Barthelmess),

First National, 1922, 27, 32, 96, 97, 104, 113
Tolstoy, Leo, x
" Transition," journal, xi
Trauberg, Ilya, film director, ix
Trauberg, Lev, film director, ix
Tsoppi, V., actor, 194
Turksib : Turin, Sokvino, 1929, 189
Two Days, Georgi Stabavoi, Vufku, 1928, 183

U

Universal, film producers, 181
Uralski, V., actor, 196

V

Vano, I., animator, 193

Virgin of Stamboul, The (Priscilla Dean), Universal,

1920, 126
Voskresenski, Professor L. N., physiologist, 192

W

Way Down East : D. W. Griffith, United Artists,

1920, 100, 129
Wedding March, The : E. Stroheim, Paramount,

1928, 181
Workers' Film Federation, 154

Z

Zarkhi, N. A., scenarist, 193, 194

FILM ACTING

Non-professional as an old woman
" Simple Case," Pudovkin.

FILM ACTING

CONTENTS

SHAFTS*

I. The Theatre and the Cinema

II. The Basic Contradiction of the
Actor's Work

III. Discontinuity in the Actor's Work

in the Cinema

IV. Theoretical Postulates of Discon

tinuity ....

V. Rehearsal Work .
VI. The Editing Image.
VII. Dialogue ....

VIII. Dual Rhythm of Sound and Image 90

IX. Intonation, Make-up, Gesture

X. Realism of the Acted Image

XI. Work with Non- Actors

XII. Casting .....

XIII. The Creative Collective

XIV. Personal Experiences

XV. Conclusions ....

5

11
22

41
53
65
79

99
108
118
127

133
144

l5l

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PLATE

I. Non-professional as an old woman. Frontispiece
" Simple Case," Pudovkin

FACING PAGE

II. Savitsky, non-professional (former Si-
berian Red Partisan), as a strike-
breaker.

" Mother," Pudovkin 14

III. Tchistiakov, then non-professional (book-

keeper since become actor), as the
father.

" Mother,5' Pudovkin 1 7

IV. Batalov, actor, as the son.

" Mother," Pudovkin 21

V. Rogulina, then first-year student at the
G.I.K. (State Institute of Cinemato-
graphy, Moscow), as Masha, wife of the
Red Army Commander.

" Simple Case," Pudovkin 28

VI. Tchuvelev, actor, as a peasant boy, and
Baranovskaya, actress, as a worker's
wife.

" End of St. Petersburg," Pudovkin 32

VII. Tchuvelev, actor, as a peasant boy.

" End of St. Petersburg," Pudovkin 37

VIII. Pudovkin as a police officer, and Bara-
novskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 44
h* 7

8 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PLATE FACING PAGE

IX. Sovrotchin, actor, as a strike-breaker.

" Mother," Pudovkin 49

X. Pudovkin as a bourgeois of the Empire.

" New Babylon," Kozintsev and Trauberg 53

XI. Tchistiakov, then non-professional, as
the father.

" Mother," Pudovkin 60

XII. Pudovkin as a docker.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 64

XIII. Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 69

XIV. Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 76

XV. Tchistiakov, now actor, as Fritz, a
German workers' leader.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 81

XVI. Livanov, actor, as a German worker.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 85

XVII. Non-professional in small part.

" Deserter," Pudovkin 92

XVIII. Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.

" Mother," Pudovkin 96

XIX. Non-professional (Red Army man from
Odessa), in small part.

" Simple Case," Pudovkin 101

XX. Unnamed player as a jail officer.

" Mother," Pudovkin 108

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 9

FACING PAGE

XXI. Pudovkin as Fedya and Vvedensky,
actor, as the informer,

" Living Corpse," Otsep 117

XXII. Pudovkin as Fedya and Nata Vashnadze,
actress, as Masha, the gipsy.

" Living Corpse,55 Otsep 124

XXIII. Livanov, actor, as a German worker and

a boy, non-professional, as the son of a
slain German worker.

" Deserter,55 Pudovkin 129

XXIV. Pudovkin as Fedya and Vvedensky,

actor, as the informer.

" Living Corpse,55 Otsep 144

FILM ACTING

CHAPTER I
THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA

Discussion of such questions as the interrelationship
between film and stage, the necessity for the cinema
to absorb and benefit from the traditions and dis-
coveries of the theatre, the respective problems of
film acting and stage acting, etc., is often along en-
tirely wrong lines. The only profitable basis for
such discussion, too often disregarded, is the con-
sideration of the cinema in its aspect as a step in the
development of the theatre.

To understand what we must discard, and what
preserve or alter, in our stage heritage we must first
appreciate those technical possibilities which dis-
tinguish the new nature of cinema from the nature
of theatre.

I use with purpose the word possibilities, because
not only theoreticians, but many practical film
workers also, limit their achievement by regarding
the cinema as little more than a photograph,
mechanically recording what in essence basically
remains a theatrical performance conditioned by the
specific technical conditions of the theatre.

The intrinsic possibilities of the cinema are only
ii

12 FILM ACTING

realised in full when its new technical means are ex-
ploited, not merely in a mechanical fixation of the
forces already found and used by the stage, but also
in the discovery of novel, often more profound and
more expressive methods of communicating to the
spectator the concept of the creative artist. We shall
always be in a position to use a camera merely to
photograph a theatrical performance, and this mere
mechanical use of it can, in fact, be of definite service
in educational work. But, I repeat, the mechanical
transference to the screen of a stage show, with all the
limitations conditioned by the latter's technical
methods, is not the proper line of development of the
cinema.

The fight against theatricality in the cinema in no
way implies antagonism to the stage as such. It only
puts before us as our task, simply and clearly, the
examination and analysis of the contradictions arising in the
process of the development of the theatre, and their resolution
in the cinema, not by slavish imitation of the theatre's solu-
tion, but by use of the cinema's own technical possibilities.
It means repudiation of a number of theatrical
methods and discovery and acceptance of analogous
specific filmic methods.

It is thus clear that, to discover the specific charac-
ter of the work of the film actor, our first task is to
analyse the contradictions in the work of the stage
actor. And, equally essential, to appreciate sharply
the distinction between the material-technical basis
of theatre and the material-technical basis of cinema.

What prime basic contradiction of the theatre is

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 13

eliminated in the cinema ? Every several work of
art may be defined as an act of collective perception
and modification of reality. This is to say that every
work of art is to be regarded not as a process of two
factors — the creative artist and the work created —
but as a more complex process, consisting of three
factors: the creative artist, the work created, and the
spectator apprehending it.

The act of perception of a fragment of reality,
recorded and fixed by the artist in the work he
creates, resumes life and repeats itself in perception
by a multitude of spectators. In concert with the
artist, the spectator likewise perceives a part of real-
ity, and, in his act of doing so, thereby transmutes
the work of art to a social-historical phenomenon,
i.e. from a paper, or canvas or celluloid symbol to an
actual process.

A stage show, exactly as any other work of art, has
real existence only in respect to its contact with the
spectator. The Soviet artist has for his spectator
the whole population of the Soviet Union ; ulti-
mately, the population of the world. What does
any given stage show represent in terms of its em-
brace of the mass spectator ? The numerical em-
brace of one stage production performed in an
average-sized theatre throughout one year would be
approximately 100,000 spectators. The embrace of
a theatrical art work is widened by its production
in a number of other theatres. But, even granted a
high technical level of the theatrical network, the
productions staged in Moscow will differ qualita-

14 FILM ACTING

tively from those staged in Odessa, Kiev, and Kazan.
They will inevitably vary with the coefficients of
method and skill of the producers, with the casts,
with the technical resources of the respective
theatres. Even in the same town it is certain that
there will be qualitative difference in production of
the same play in different theatres. Suppose we go
farther, and consider the ultimate embrace of the
many-millioned spectator of the colkhoz,1 we imme-
diately encounter a qualitative difference of the
highest degree. Contrast a production at the First
Moscow Art Theatre, and at a colkhoz theatre,
which not even the most perfect conceivable organi-
sation of the on-tour system could contrive to service
with acting forces of first strength.

Consequently, in the theatre, the widening of its
network is in direct contradiction with the quality
of its performance. The theatre has, however, one
further technical means of expanding its spectator-
embrace, and that is, increase in the size of its
auditorium. Here too, however, there is a definite
limit beyond which this contradiction implicit in the
very nature of the stage show comes once again to
the fore. The first desideratum for the actor is that
he must be distinctly seen and heard. In order to be
distinctly perceptible to a larger number of specta-
tors the actor studies voice delivery, learns to make
his gestures obvious and clear without losing their
intrinsic character, he learns, in short, to move and

1 Collective farm, each with its own cultural facilities, including
theatre.— Tr.

II

Savitsky, non-professional (former Siberian Red
Partisan), as a strike-breaker.

" Mother," Pudovkin.

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 15

speak in such a way that he can be seen and heard
distincdy from the last row in the gallery.

But the broader an acting gesture, the less it can
be shaded. The more intensified the actor's tones,
the more difficult it is for him to transmit to the
spectator the finer shades of his voice. Loudness of
tone and widening of gesture lead to generalised
form and stylisation, which tend as a technique
inevitably to become dry and cold. The depth and
realism of the image that the actor creates tend
to vary inversely with the size of the audience that
sees his performance. Increase in size of a theatrical
building has thus a boundary beyond which the
building itself dictates the actual form of the pro-
duction, even its transmutation into specialised forms
of mass spectacle: festivals, carnivals, parades, etc.

We perceive from these considerations that stage
art, in the circumstances obtaining in practice,
evinces a contradiction between numerical increase
of its audience (along two possible lines) and qualita-
tive improvement of performance.

How is this contradiction escaped in the cinema ?
The degree of quality in the work of art is fixed once
and for all at the time of single production of the
film. The quality attained can be conveyed un-
modified to any audience by means of a cinema
network capable of development to any dimen-
sion. The measure of spectator-embrace is solved
simply by the specific technical character of the
cinema. The spectator-embrace can be increased
in number to include the entire population of the

16 FILM ACTING

world. The quality of the performance at any given
point in the network, however remote from the
centre, varies solely as the quality of the technical
equipment of the given theatre at which it takes
place, and this is merely a matter of standardisation.
At some future date it may well be that every dwell-
ing will have a projection equipment, operated by
some improved form of radio-television, and giving
the possibility of simultaneous and uniform presenta-
tion of a film in every conceivable corner of the
globe.

Certainly the same means might be used for
simultaneous and ubiquitous transmission of a
theatrical performance. But the cinema's property
of indefinitely repeating its performance at its fixed
and optimal degree of quality will remain unique.

The second aspect of the contradiction in theatri-
cal acting, also referred to above, quality varying
inversely with the size of the auditorium, is equally
solved in the cinema. The size of the cinema theatre
is no handicap to performance, for the possibility
of increase in size of the screen, or in number of the
sound-reproducers, is unlimited. Thus, at the time
of shooting, the actor can speak without straining
his tones in the slightest, he is free to exercise the
finest shading of voice and gesture. We shall later
have to discuss the importance of this fact for the
special character of film acting.

I now come to a new contradiction, arisen from
the influence upon theatrical development of our
contemporary life. The artist, drawing the specta-

V

V
V

O

J3

>

o

£ 5

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 17

tor into a joint perception and modification of
reality with him in the process of creating and
apprehending the work of art, has a general ten-
dency to embrace his fragment of reality as widely
and deeply as he can. In an epoch such as ours,
wherein the tempestuous development of reality
continually outpaces the generalisation of it in
human thought, it is natural that this tendency
should express itself in an endeavour to deal realisti-
cally with the innumerable only newly discovered
facets of this reality.

The eager desire to discover, beyond each
generalisation, the living complexity of life, ever
new-faceted, inevitably gives rise to a desire to
embrace a maximum number of events in the work
of art and consequently to expand it over a maximum
embrace of time and space.

To contrive the increase in the work of art of the
space-time embrace of reality, each art form has its
own specific methods deriving from its own specific
material technique. In the theatre, for example,
the principal means of attaining this end is the
splitting-up of the performance into separate acts
and scenes. A one-act performance of two persons
engaged in dialogue and lasting without interval
for an hour embraces exactly that, an hour's con-
versation between two persons stationary in one
place — and no more. To embrace a bigger slice
of time we split the act into two scenes. The first
can be played as springtime in Berlin, the second as
summer in Moscow. Such a division of an act into

1 8 FILM ACTING

parts gives us the possibility of embracing not only
bigger time, but also bigger space.

In his productions of classical plays, Meyerhold
tries to imbue them with a contemporary content,
and consequently is perpetually overflowing the
limited framework which, in the classics, holds the
action within a unity of time and space. In order
to create in the audience, by means of the show,
the necessary feeling of the dialectical complexity
of the event, Meyerhold expands each act by tech-
nical stage devices that have the object of theatrically
expressing the new content which the modern
spectator, and the artist in concert with him, per-
ceives in reality.

Thus in his productions Meyerhold splits the act
not only into scenes but into many episodes within
scenes. An interesting example is his production of
Ostrovski's The Forest, in which, by means of this
splitting, he literally guides his two actors through-
out a whole province without them leaving the stage.

But development along this line, while remaining
at the same time conditioned by the material
limitations of stage technique, inevitably comes to a
dead end fixed by an insoluble and purely material
contradiction. It is impossible to conceive a stage
performance cut up into one- and two-minute bits.
Such a performance would presuppose entirely new
engineering inventions enabling scenic changes at
the speed of lightning, enabling the spectator to
transfer his attention from one point of stage space
to the other with the speed of the successive bits.

THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 19

In his production ofRazbeg,1 Okhlopkov makes an
attempt to scatter separate tiny scenes throughout
the whole space of the auditorium, so that to follow
the change of episode, the spectator is obliged to
turn his head right, left, up, sometimes even straight
behind him. Of course, if a mechanically perfect
seat could be devised that would save the spectator
the unnecessary exhaustion (and the crick in his
neck) caused by the movements imposed on him, the
problem might be said to have been by this means
resolved in his favour. But is it worth while invent-
ing such seats, when the technical basis of the cinema
solves precisely this problem with the utmost ease ?

In the hoary days of cinema, when the style was
more ultra-theatrical than ever since, and it had not
yet occurred to anyone that the film could be any-
thing but a simple photograph of a staged play,
even then, the cinema used scenes each of which was
no longer than 5 minutes long. In other words,
the longest scenes of the film at its birth were equal
to the shortest scenes of the stage at its most modern.

The possibility of lightning-like change of action,
also, was inherent and realised in the most infantile
days of cinema. The possibility of almost infinite
wideness of embrace both in space and time was
already appreciated and realised in the very first
works by serious masters of film art.

The splitting-up of the stage performance into

1 Impetus, a play from the novel of the same name on colkhoz
life by V. Stavski, produced at the Krasnaya Presnya Theatre in
Moscow.— Note by V. I. P.

20 FILM ACTING

pieces, a natural development of theatre accentuated
in these days by the present eagerness to embrace
wider space-time fragments of comprehensible
reality, reaches, at a certain stage of its development,
a point of standstill on the stage and, at the same time,
a starting-point in the cinema. The 3-minute bit
that is an unthinkable high limit of speed for a scene
change in the theatre is, in the cinema, the last limit
of slowness.

What is the new material-technical base which
eliminates from the cinema this second contradiction,
shown above to be an obstacle implicit in theatrical
development ? In the main this new technique is
enabled by two instruments. First, a movable
photographing apparatus, that serves in some sort
as a technically perfected spectator's eye. This eye
can retreat from its object to any distance in order
to embrace the widest possible spacial field of vision.
It can approach the tiniest detail in order to con-
centrate upon it the whole attention. It can jump
from one point in space to another, and the sum
total of all these movements requires, to all intents
and purposes, no physical exertion on the part of
the spectator. Second, a microphone, almost as
readily movable and representing an attentive ear,
capable of apprehending every sound without strain,
be it the barely audible whisper of man or the roar
of powerful sirens made faint by distance.

The purpose of this study is to define the main
respects in which this new material-technical basis
affects the work of one of the most important

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THE THEATRE AND THE CINEMA 21

members of the creative ensemble in cinema or in
theatre — the actor.

It would, of course, be wrong to assume that the
new technique affects the actor's work only by
lightening it, in that it removes the necessity for him
to overcome a whole series of specific theatrical con-
tradictions (such as the intensification of voice-tone
and exaggeration of gesture needed to overcome the
space separating actor from spectator in a large
building, as mentioned above).

The new material-technical basis of the cinema not
only affects the actor's work by lightening it in cer-
tain respects, it also imports many difficulties not
present in stage work, or present there in milder and
more tractable form.

Before discussing the specific work of the film actor
it will be best first to consider those aspects of the
actor's work common to both film and stage, and
therefore inescapable in either.

CHAPTER II
THE BASIC CONTRADICTION OF THE ACTOR'S WORK

The fundamental of the actor's job, both in film and
on the stage, is the creation of a whole and lifelike
image. From the very start of his work the actor
has to set out to grasp and ultimately embody this
image, shaping himself in the course of stage
rehearsal or, in the cinema, in the so-called ' prepar-
atory work.'

Both in stage and screen work the actor has to
embody the image in its deepest sense, ideologically
and teleologically. But this task is not only con-
ditioned objectively, it is also conditioned, of course,
subjectively.

The image that has to be worked out is con-
ditioned not only by the intention of the play as a
whole, but also by the nature of the actor's self, it is
related to himself as an individual personality. Any
problem involving modification of his personality,
however one may regard it, is obviously per se
indissolubly linked with the continuous actual
existence of the actor as a live individual, with all the
elements of character and culture contributing to
his formation. The relation between the proposed
image and the actor as a live person is particularly
strong at the beginning of his work. For this is the
period at which emphasis lies on the element of his

THE BASIC CONTRADICTION 23

emotional attitude to the image, his so-called
' feeling ' of some aspect of the image that particu-
larly excites him and thereby serves as the essential
point of departure of his work on it. Only later
does the actor proceed to the task of thoroughly
understanding and grasping the play as a whole,
appreciating its ideological content. Then his
work widens and becomes the solution of the most
generalised problems of the play.

The work of the actor on the image is thus
oriented two ways. The image the actor builds as
his work develops, on the one hand is constructed
out of himself as a person with given individual
characteristics, and on the other is conditioned by
the interaction of this personal element and the
intention in general of the play.

The final object of the actor and his performance
is to convey to the spectator a real person, or at
least a person who could conceivably exist in reality.
But at the same time, all the while he is creating this
image, the actor none the less remains a live,
organically whole self. When he walks on the stage,
nothing within him is destroyed. If he be a nice
man acting a villain, he still remains a nice man
acting a villain. Hence the creation of the image
must be effected not by mere mechanical portrayal
of qualities alien to him, but by the subjugation
and adaptation of the qualities innate in him.

An image of the necessary reality will only be
achieved when the given series of expressions, both
internal and external, required by the play is

24 FILM ACTING

expressed not by a set of words, gestures, and inton-
ations dictated by formula or whimsy and mechani-
cally repeated, but as result of the subjugation and
re-expression of the actor's own living individuality.
This manner of constructing a role will give it an
organic unity that it will never receive if it be
arbitrarily separated from the living organic unity
of the actor as a person.

The duality of the creative process in the actor's
creation of the image is only an aspect of the duality
or dialectic of every process of comprehension of
reality, indeed every practical getting-to-grips-with-it
by man with any phenomenon. In political work,
for example, which is creative in the sense in which
is the fulfilment of every task, there is the dialectic
of the conflict and unity of theory and practice.
Theory is checked by practice, practice generalised
by theory, and only as resolved resultant of these
conflicts does work proceed correctly. The emo-
tional side and the logical side represent the duality
in an actor's work of creating an image. If his
construction is to have the organic unity of life,
logic of synthesis must be informed by personal
emotional excitement, and, correspondingly, emo-
tional urgings must be based upon and checked in
the light of the logic of the play. This consideration
immediately exposes the limitations, both in theatre
and in cinema, of the often recommended naif and
natural c type.'

The idea that the alpha and omega of acting can
be expressed by a ' type ' is based upon the regarding

THE BASIC CONTRADICTION 25

of acting as a sort of mechanical process capable of
being disintegrated into separate and quite un-
connected bits. It ignores the fact that the actor
does, in fact, exist as a live person, if a type, then a
person unconscious of the inner meaning of his work,
and thus, to say the least, unable to further the
creation on stage or screen of the unification and
wholeness necessary for living verisimilitude of
image.

Here let us reaffirm our principal desideratum for
acting both on stage and screen. The aim and object
of the technique of the actor is his struggle for unity, for an
organic wholeness in the lifelike image he creates.

But the technical conditions of work on the stage
and for the screen impose a number of demands on
the actor that perpetually tend to destroy his unity
and continuity in the role.

The splitting-up of the performance on the stage
into acts, scenes, episodes, the still more subdivided
splitting-up of the actor's work in the shooting of a
film, set up a corresponding series of obstacles
through and over which the entire creative collective
(actor-producer in the theatre, actor-director-
cameraman-etc. in the film) must combine to carry
the organic unity of line of the actor's image.

This unavoidable technical split-up of his work is
immediately in direct contradiction with the actor's
need to preserve himself in his acting whole and un-
divided. In both play and film, this contradiction
always obtains. In actual performance, the actor
plays in bits. Between two entries, between two

26 FILM ACTING

performances, though not playing, his existence is
continuous.

Bad actors and bad theoreticians get round this
contradiction between the mechanical splitting dic-
tated by the conditions of performance and the need
for the actor to strive to live uninterruptedly in the
image by maintaining that the gestures and words
necessary for the part can simply be mechanically
memorised, and thus suspended, as it were, over the
intervals.

Where one regards the actor as a c type ' who only
mechanically repeats externally dictated gestures,
the intervals between the separate bits of acting do,
it is true, look like vacua that do not need to be filled
with living material linking up the part as a whole
on and off the stage, not only during a performance
or shooting, but also during rehearsal.

This superficial attitude to the actor's work is
especially prevalent in the cinema. But, actually,
the discontinuity of the actor's work must never be ignored,
but always treated as a difficulty to be overcome. Let it be
admitted that splitting-up into bits is less serious on
the stage than in the cinema. The technical con-
ditions of stage work allow the bits of continued
existence in the given image to be longer. And there
is a whole series of methods in the work of the stage
actor's study of the image designed to the end of
bringing about a maximum of linkage of the separate
bits of the role into one whole within the actor him-
self. First and foremost of theatrical methods for
this purpose is rehearsal. During rehearsal the

THE BASIC CONTRADICTION 27

stage actor does not limit himself by the hard-and-
fast conditions imposed by the text of the play.
Stanislavski makes his actors in rehearsal act not
only their parts as they stand in the play, but
supplementary action not, in fact, in the text, but
necessary to enable the actor completely to ' feel ■
himself into his part.

Rehearsal work of this kind enables the actor to
feel himself an organic unity moving freely in all
directions within the frame of the image planned.
Essentially, it is precisely this work that links the separate
bits of his acting to the feeling, however discontinuous in
fact, of a unified, continuous real image.

Rehearsal work of this kind is precisely the oppor-
tunity for the actor to transform the abstract thought
and general line of expression that he has hit on to
express the image into concrete acts and manners of
behaviour.

If the actor remain only at the c thinking ' stage
of his creative work, even for a moment, then in
respect to that moment he ceases to be an actor.
If the actor decide that the person he is portraying
might have killed a man between acts one and two,
then he should not only include the murder as an
abstract element of his treatment of the image in
the second act, but he should, in fact, actually
practise acting this murder non-existent in the play,
so that he may inwardly feel not only the concept of
the murder, but, as really as possible, all the potenti-
alities of the murder and its influence on the charac-
ter of the image.

28 FILM ACTING

This sort of rehearsal work, designed to connect the
complexity of the objectively planned image with
the live and actual individuality of the actor and
all its wealth of individual character and culture,
might be termed the process of being absorbed into or
embodying the role.

Stanislavski in one of his essays speaks of the art of
living an image and the art of presenting an image,
distinguishing by these terms two kinds of acting,
the first basing itself on inner impulse, the second
on externalised theatrical forms.

Stanislavski says: " While the art of living an
image strives to feel the spirit of the role every time
and at each creation, the art of presenting an image
strives only once to live the role, privately, to show
it once and then to substitute an externalised form
expressing its spiritual essence: the hack actor dis-
regards the living of the role and endeavours to
work out once and for all a ready-made form of
expression of feeling, a stage interpretation for every
possible role and possible tendency in art. In other
words, for the art of living representation, living the
role is indispensable. The hack manages without it
and indulges in it only occasionally."

This is, in effect, what we have said, using for the
word ' living ' the term ' absorption ' or ' embodi-
ment,5 since it is specifically that process of setting
up a profound linkage between the subjective per-
sonal element of the actor and the objective element
of the play. If the image be properly constructed,
then this linkage has been set up. It is a linkage

Rogulina, then first-year student at the G.I.K. (State
Institute of Cinematography, Moscow), as Masha, wife

of the Red Army Commander.
V " Simple Case," Pudovkin.

THE BASIC CONTRADICTION 29

that, as Stanislavski says, is present in the work of
every good actor, absent from that of the hack,
whom Stanislavski rightly regards as better vanished
from the stage.

One may agree or disagree with the necessity for
living the role in the complex and meticulous sense
of the Moscow Art Theatre school of actors, but in
any circumstances the organic relation between the
actor's individuality and every live element in the
image he plays is indispensable.

This relation is a precondition for any verisimili-
tude in the image. Naturally, all that has been said
of the organic continuity and unity of the role
applies equally to the organic continuity and unity
of the performance as a whole. Stanislavski's basic
postulate of the necessity for an actor to discover
c intermediate action ' remains in force.

It should here be noted that the process of personal
identification with an objectively planned image is
necessary not only in film and stage work. I
suggest that a concrete feeling of connection between
the individuality and the image to be created is
normal and essential for the creative process in
every art.

There is a body of instructive evidence about their
work from writers, who describe how, frequently,
they mouth the words of the characters they are in-
venting in order to test by concrete, personal sensa-
tion the phrases, words, and intonations they are
seeking.

We recall that Gogol declared all the characters

30 FILM ACTING

in Dead Souls to be, in fact, dark sides of his own
nature that he wished, by expression, to annihilate
in himself.

The system of rehearsal is the special means the
theatre takes to aid the actor in his struggle to
incarnate himself in his role.

CHAPTER III
DISCONTINUITY IN THE ACTOR'S WORK IN THE CINEMA

All that has been said hitherto of the paramount
importance and necessity of the actor's striving for
wholeness in his image in the theatre applies, of
course, with equal force to the work of the film actor.
It might, indeed, be said that realism, that is, by
implication, the lifelike unity of the im&ge, is a
problem more pertinent and urgent to the film actor
than even to the actor in the theatre. It is character-
istic of the stage that effective performance is, as a
matter of fact, possible upon it on a basis of exag-
geration of theatrical convention, performance
having an abstractly aesthetic character maximally
removed from direct reflection of reality, but the
cinema is characteristically the art that gives the
utmost possibility of approach to realistic reproduction
of reality.

I emphasise here as elsewhere the word c possi-
bility.' This is in order that the reader shall not
think our analyses of possibilities, or our recom-
mendations, the attempt to fix a static complex of
methods as sole law of expression for cinema once and
for all. Certainly the cinema too is capable of
production in conventionalised style, style abstracted
from direct representation of reality; certainly the
cinema also is capable of generalisation, can develop

1 31

32 FILM ACTING

it to any degree, even to the limit of the supreme
antithesis black and white. But none the less, the
cinema is par excellence the art form capable of
maximum capture of living reality in direct repre-
sentation.

The question of the degree of generalisation to be
employed in any given specific instance in an art
form — this is always a question of the sense of pro-
portion of the skilful creative artist, and the measure
of its Tightness is ultimately the reaction felt by the
spectator when the work of art is complete : either
acceptance by the experience of a real emotion —
always the highest valuation for a work of art — or
else cold negation.

But in discussing possibilities, I endeavour to
determine the general tendency of development of
the specific given art form, which, after all, the
creative artist must take into account, however
personal his own solution.

In the cinema, exactly as in the theatre, we
immediately come right up against the problem
posed by the discontinuity of the actor's work being
in direct contradiction with his need for a continu-
ous creative ' living-into ' and embodiment of the
image played.

Owing to the special methods used in filming,
which we shall discuss later, this contradiction
becomes in practice even more acute than in the
theatre. If we assemble some of the stories that
stage actors have to tell about their experiences on
occasional film work, we shall find a whole host of

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DISCONTINUITY 33

denunciations, protests, even indignant swear words,
all inspired by the notorious and fantastically
exaggerated discontinuity of the film actor's job.

Actors maintain that either they have to portray
the image they play in extremely abstract manner,
limited as they are in study to a superficial reading
of the scenario, or, alternatively, they deliver them-
selves bound into the hands of the director and his
assistants, becoming will-less automata, executing in
obedience to a series of shouts and orders a mechani-
cal task the purport of which is incomprehensible to
them. Actors further hold that they lose every
possibility of feeling the unity of the image, every
possibility of preserving during the process of
shooting a sense of live continuous individuality,
owing to the fact that they act the end of their role
to-day, the beginning to-morrow, and the middle
the day after. The various bits are tangled, they
are terribly short; from time to time somebody
photographs a glance that relates to something the
actor will be doing a month hence when somebody
else has photographed a hand movement that has
to do with the glance. The image created by the
actor is split into minutest particles, only later to be
gathered together, and, horribile dictu, this gathering
is effected not by him but by the director, who, in the
majority of cases, does not allow the actor to come
anywhere near to or observe the process or even
have the remotest connection with it. Such, on
general lines, is the protest of the stage actor who has
done work for the cinema.

34 FILM ACTING

But is it really true that the cinema, owing to its
technical peculiarities, so inflexibly dictates an
inevitable elimination of all possibility of the actor
concretely feeling the wholeness of his role ? Is it
really inevitably necessary to make the actor work in
such conditions, which, as creative artist, he is
unable to accept ? Of course not. We must
recognise that the system of work with the actor
hitherto in vogue with the majority of considerable
directors is not only not perfect, but plainly and
simply wrong. And it is our task to discover lines
along which, just as in theatre (and we have already
seen that discontinuity exists also ip stage acting,
but to a lesser degree), the actor can be furnished
with working conditions enabling him to effect the
essential process of living-into his role.

Let us state here in set terms that, however the
solution be found, it will not be by avoidance of
splitting up the acting of the actor during the pro-
cess of shooting itself; for from this we not only shall
not escape, but, in fact, must not escape if we are
properly to appreciate the essence of the path along
which the cinema's main development lies. We
must not avoid this splitting up, but simply seek
and find corresponding technical methods to aid the
actor in struggling against and overcoming it,
thereby re-establishing for him the possibility of
internally creating and preserving a feeling of the
sum total of the separate fragments of acting as a
single image, organically livened by himself. The
theatre helps the actor by development and particu-

DISCONTINUITY 35

larisation of the method of rehearsal. We in the
cinema must find means of following the same
path.

First for a moment let us understand whence
derives this distorted degree of splitting up we have
just admitted as characteristic for cinema. The
discovery and establishment of the need to split up
the actor's acting into editing pieces derives imme-
diately from the methods, technical in the narrowest
sense, found appropriate by directors and from the
making of films as such. From the earliest moment
of appearance of the cinema, those who most pro-
foundly and seriously adopted it, whether con-
sciously or otherwise, as an art form capable of
development on independent lines were directors,
and accordingly it is natural that the most important
works first achieved in cinema were attained under
the aegis of marked directorial control.

The directors sought, and indeed found, in
cinema specific potentialities enabling them, by its
means and its means alone, to exert an impression
on the spectators not only powerful, but in certain
instances more powerful than that which could have
been achieved in any other medium.

It is the directors who discovered those special
forms of composition for the at first wholly visual,
subsequently compound (partly sound) images of
film termed montage or constructive editing. Rhyth-
mic composition of pieces of celluloid introduced the
element of rhythmic composition indispensable for
impression in any art. In providing the indispens-

36 FILM ACTING

able basis for making the cinema an art at all, it at
the same time made it an especially notable one, for
it enabled also a wealth of embrace of the actual
world impossible to any other art save perhaps
literature.

The perception and realisation of the camera-
microphone combination as an observer ideally
mobile in space and time not only gave straightway
to the film an epic sweep, it not unnaturally tended
to distract the director and scenarist associated with
him from proper recollection of the importance of
bearing constantly in mind that a living human
individual is an individuality of at least a given
profundity and complexity of its own. The possi-
bility of swinging the focus of attention of the tech-
nical recording apparatus to a boundless number of
different points of interest, their combination in the
cutting process, the possibility of eliminating action
from a film at given intervals, as though contracting
or expanding time itself, all these possibilities led to
results that placed the cinema pre-eminent among
the arts in its capacity for breadth of comprehension
of material of the real world. At the same time,
however, the distracting process of exploring these
possibilities led directors at a given stage in the
development of film to a point at which they began
to use the living man, the actor, merely as one
component in the film, side by side with and
equivalent to other components, material of equal
and undifferentiated value, ready to take its turn
and place and submit as inanimately to editorial

VII

Tchuvelev, actor, as a peasant boy.
' End of St. Petersburg," Pudovkin.

DISCONTINUITY 37

composition in the closing stages of the creative
work on the film.

The actor became, so to say, shuffled, sorted out,
used, in effect, like an aeroplane, a motor-car, or a
tree. Directors, in searching for the right methods
of constructing a performance cinematographically,
missed realising that to get fullest value in a per-
formance, cinematographic or otherwise, by a living
being, that living person must not only not be
eliminated in the process, must not only be preserved,
but must be brought out; and if this bringing out
be not realistic, that is, not unified and alive, in the
end the man in the film will be a great deal more
lifeless than the aeroplane and the motor-car (which,
it must be confessed, is precisely what has happened
in the work of some of our directors). With the
actor used as a machine, in a mechanical way,
became associated a whole flood of theoretical out-
pourings based on a mechanical extension of the
editorial methods of alternation in length of pieces
in cutting into a methodology for the actor's work
on the floor. These technical outpourings could,
in fact, only unfairly be dignified with the name of
theory, inasmuch as they were only justifications of
an empiria based on experiments concerned with
something quite different, the main problems of
editorial composition in film.

Their trend, however, was roughly as follows.
On the screen we have long-shots and close-ups.
Therefore the actor mus| exactly adapt his behaviour
in front of the camera to the requirements of these

38 FILM ACTING

various camera-angles. On the screen there exists
an undoubted interaction of effect between two
adjacent pieces of film, an interaction which obtains
though the content of the first piece be acting by an
actor and that of the second any phenomenon the
director or scenarist may require, taking place at
any point of space whatever, however far removed
from the actor in actual fact. Therefore the actor
must be able to act his short piece without beginning
or end and in absence of that which eventually will
influence the content of his acting by interaction
with it on the screen.

On the screen we can move the actor in the action
with lightning speed from any one point in time or
space to another, which we cannot do in the actual
shooting on the floor. Therefore the actor must be
able to act separate bits separated from one another
by any time interval and trust their combination
entirely and solely to the director, the only person
guided by fore-perception of the film in its already
completed state.

This is the way in which some have imagined
the sum total of technical activity demanded of
the actor. This mechanical understanding lacks
all appreciation of the main fact, which is that the
creative process of the actor is and must remain
the fight for the feeling of the living substance of that
image any component separate action in the make-
up of which, however far removed from its fellow,
will none the less be connected with it within the
actor. And, further, that the technique of this

DISCONTINUITY 39

process can and must be no more and no less than
the methods of this fight. No help has ever been
afforded the actor in this direction, and consequently,
truth to tell, the technique of acting in the cinema
has remained at a low level.

I must emphasise yet again that, in speaking of
the unity of the image and divining a technique to
help the actor to achieve it, I in no way renounce or
repudiate the indispensability of making separate,
relatively short pieces in the process of shooting.
There is a tendency afoot to help the actor by trans-
forming his work to longer pieces and longer shots.
This tendency is really nothing but a step along the
line of least resistance, squeezing back into the
cinema by contraband route the specialities and
technique of the stage. This tendency is one that
ignores, or deliberately turns its back upon, precisely
those potentialities of the cinema that have set it in
a place distinct and apart from the other arts, a
place, as I have already said, earned directly by the
multitude, and therefore shortness, of the pieces
composing a film. This path is open to anyone.
The film Groza x must, from this point of view, be
considered as definitely reactionary. At the same
time it undoubtedly has an important instructive
lesson for us, as it is one of the first in our cinema
that has given the actor a chance to feel himself a
live human being in the process of his acting on the
floor.

Of course, it is not this road leading to the mere

1 The Tempest , directed by Petrov, from the play by Ostrovsky. — Tr.

40 FILM ACTING

bounding of cinematograph performance by stage
limits of time and space that is the right road for the
cinema. We must give battle on that general front
that includes the uttermost wealth of possibilities
the cinema can give, and whereon, as is the
natural course, we shall consequently encounter the
maximum number of obstacles.

CHAPTER IV
THEORETICAL POSTULATES OF DISCONTINUITY

The aim of the theatre, as of any other art form, is,
let us repeat the definition, the collective compre-
hension and modification of reality by its reflection
in the work of art. The only basic weapon in the
arsenal of methods the theatre has at its disposal for
carrying out this process is the actor's dialogue.
That embrace of reality to the maximum degree
which is the aim and purpose of the artist is, in the
theatre, fundamentally possible only by means of the
actor, the human being, by means of his gesture,
his speech, and his linkage to other persons in dia-
logue.

It is true that, in the performance on the stage,
apart from the human individual, the material
shaping of the action also plays a part in the direct
representation to the spectator of the reality outside
the actor. But none the less, the theatre is of such
a character that the primary basis conveying the
content of the performance is the speaking human
being, i.e. the actor linked to other actors by dia-
logue.

The representation of the reality outside the actor
in the theatre is exceedingly limited by its technique.
There are certain instances in which the material
part of the performance, the background, is

4*

42 FILM ACTING

given prominence. But when the theatre chooses
this line, it rapidly exhausts its possibilities of
development. In general the portrayal of wide and
varied events environmental to any given element of
human activity is possible only by their description
in the text; that is to say, once more and again by
human speech spoken on the stage, that is, by the
actor.

The direct portrayal of events organically con-
nected in content with the action but separated
from it in space or time can, in the long run, only be
rendered on the stage by their narration. Messen-
gers, or a compere, are typical theatrical devices
often introduced for the purpose.

The world of reality, grasped by the artist in his
creative act of comprehending it, in the main can
penetrate the theatre only through the actor, his
voice, his gesture, his movements, his behaviour.
This is the characteristic of the theatre.

The cinema is different. That which on the stage
can only be narrated, on the screen can be directly
represented. The special technical basis of the
cinema, already discussed above, is to a remarkable
degree capable of direct portrayal, direct trans-
mission to the spectator of any event occurring in
reality.

It might be argued that direct portrayal is neither
necessary nor even specially desirable. In the
process of generalisation essentially typical of every
creative act, especially in art, one might renounce
the direct representation of separate events dispersed

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 43

in time and space and gather them into a generalising
whole that the artist might situate anywhere in any
single spot. No one can dispute the necessity for
generalisation in the creative process. But its
realisation to the extent of an idealistic compromise
with facile and old-fashioned forms and rejection of
new possibilities never heretofore available must, in
my view, be regarded as essentially wrong and
reactionary.

I once had occasion to talk to a playwright who
frankly admitted that, when planning a play on
aviation, he realised without doubt that material
of such a nature would fall more clearly, expres-
sively, and effectively into the form of a film.

Here is a concrete example, a notable and signi-
ficant phenomenon of our present-day reality, the
world development of aviation, one which in con-
siderable degree conditions a change and develop-
ment in the psychology of mankind, and which in its
full richness can be mastered and transmitted to the
audience only by direct representation of events so
far-reaching in scope and occurring in such dimen-
sions that they cannot possibly be accommodated on
the stage of a theatre.

On the stage the actor will tell of a flight, in
literature the author will add to the tale a descrip-
tion of the circumstances exterior to the inward
emotions of the person flying, but only the cinema
can unite for the benefit of the spectator the direct
and fullest sensation of both.

A direct portrayal, for reasons sufficiently obvious,

44 FILM ACTING

invariably exerts an especially strong and vivid
impression. In strength of influence on the specta-
tor, the theatre, owing to its directness of repre-
sentation, even of its limited material, has hitherto
held foremost place among the arts. If we take
into consideration the capacity of the cinema
directly to introduce material immeasurably richer
than that which the theatre can ever hope to tackle,
we perceive how, of its own nature, the cinema can
approach or even transcend literature in its excep-
tional power of impression.

The cinema is in a sense a potential mirror,
directly representing events in the wholeness of their
dialectical complexity. In the wholeness of this
reflection resides a profound force irresistibly drag-
ging the spectator himself into participation in the
creative process. The directness of representation
of cinema material, even having regard to the ele-
ment of generalisation inseparable from its comr
position, forces the spectator to take himself an
active part in comprehending it at the moment of its
portrayal.

It is noteworthy that Lenin, with that striking
simplicity and clarity in understanding the essence
of things invariably characteristic of him, imme-
diately determined the cinema as first and foremost
a powerful means of the widest embrace and under-
standing of reality and its transmission to the many-
millioned masses — and this just on the basis of a
chance report of purely technical character.

I refer to the well-known programme for the

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cinema, in which Lenin emphasised the importance
of the cinema's astonishing ability to portray the
world, to acquaint broad peasant and working-
class masses with the nature of other countries, and
so forth.

Our cinema, at least in so far as the work of its
best directors is concerned, has developed and is
developing principally in the direction of incor-
porating in films the maximum possible wealth, in
direct representation, of the variety of events of
reality, sometimes indeed at the expense of the
necessary degree of generalisation.

This characteristic cannot, in my view, be re-
garded as explicable simply as the outcome of the
individual taste of the directors. We should, in my
view, bear in mind the fact that the living reality
around us is pushing forward under our noses with
so manifold a growth that, more often than not, in
grasping it and passing it on to the spectator, we
have no time to pause and mould its complexity into
the lijnits of a generalisation.

Realise the multitude of dogmas that has been
exploded and destroyed during the revolution.
The fight, still continuing, against dogma, against
the remnants of capitalist consciousness, often
expresses itself in the offer by the artist, instead of a
formula, of its living content, as though directly
appealing to the spectator to co-operate by himself
performing, in his act of comprehension, the neces-
sary generalisation of the complexity presented to
him.

46 FILM ACTING

The point is illustrated by an example only in-
directly related to our subject. That exceptionally
gifted writer, Leo Tolstoy, who achieved a book,
War and Peace, amazing in its vitality and in the end-
less wealth of real and live material it contains, wrote
as he grew older Resurrection, a book in which page
after page, chapter after chapter, is full of generalisa-
tions, dissertations, deductions, in which the persons
move less and act less, in which the persons are
themselves fewer and the space of action narrower.
And this same Tolstoy towards the close of his life
constantly wrote philosophical treatises devoid both
of life and live characters.

The above remarks on Tolstoy are not, of course,
in any sense a valuation of the various stages of his
art. I desired only to instance by this example the
fact that whole and important works of art can be
created in a creative tension deriving from a
vigorous youthful perception of reality, without
renouncing the widest direct portrayal of the
innumerable separate elements of reality.

The advancement of generalisation is, of course,
one path of development, but it is none the less liable
to grow into dogma; that is to say, at a given stage
to cause a change over into senile decay, to change
from an art capable of moving people to cold and
dry sermonising.

This is why, in pondering the various paths open
to the cinema, I cannot but recall the achievement
attained by Tolstoy's amazing genius in War and
Peace, and reflect with alarm on the fate of that same

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 47

genius of Tolstoy frozen stiff into the iceberg of
idealist dogma.

We must not be frightened by the wealth of
material in our films. I have often come across
rabid protagonists of the famous Chaplin film
Woman of Paris. This film is certainly an example
of the highest directorial and acting skill, but the
trouble is that its partisans not only praise the film
as an example of skill, but desire to elevate its
methods into a pattern for the basis of film art.
The film is staged in a deeply intimate manner.
The action hardly even leaves the limits of a couple
of rooms. The one solitary exterior that occurs in
the film portrays a section of roadway on which the
dramatis personae meet for the last time and separate
on their respective ways.

The painstaking attention of its author-director is
concentrated on the minutest details of the small drama
that unrolls in the intimate circle of its four or five
characters. This is all very excellent and possible
in its way and in no wise to be rejected by us. The
film Groza {The Tempest) is very similar in its
cinematic treatment to the Chaplin film.

But it seems to me that this type of film is not
merely unsuitable to many of our Soviet film
writers, but in general is liable to distract the cinema
from its specific, exceptional, and most effective
possibilities.

For Chaplin all the wealth of events linked to-
gether in the complicated life of human society was
not necessary, because these phenomena have long

48 FILM ACTING

ago been transmuted by bourgeois thought into a
corresponding number of dead dogmas. Chaplin,
living in a bourgeois milieu, easily detaches his world
of four persons from the c rest/ because the c rest '
for him and for the audience to which he appeals
is just a world of ready-made ideas fixed and not
especially exciting. The universally accepted ideas
and norms of a bourgeois audience represent a wall
with which it screens itself from the perils of a
developing society, and it is the bourgeois artist's
job to preserve this wall intact. Contact with" the
richness of the outer world must inevitably be
alarming for the bourgeois artist. Whereas with our
audience and our artists it is, of course, quite different.

The organic link between the tense-strung com-
plexity of our epoch and the character of the work
of art in cinema is certain. And a striving towards
maximum mastery of reality in content, the realisa-
tion of the maximum possibility of direct repre-
sentation of reality on the screen, just as certainly
leads to the specific method characteristic of film art
— montage or the editing together of numerous
relatively short pieces.

We must, further, mention here an additional
specific potentiality of cinema which also inevitably
entails the splitting up of the actor's work in the
process of being shot.

Imagine an actor delivering an emotional speech
in a large auditorium. The listening crowd reacts
to the words of the orator. It applauds, it interrupts
with isolated calls and shouts. Suppose we desire

IX

Sovrotchin, actor, as a strike-breaker.
" Mother," Pudovkin.

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 49

to portray the crowd not as a thousand-headed
faceless mass, but as a many-imaged unity, if we
appreciate the fact that a mass is comprehended in
its real content and significance only when are per-
ceptible its component individual groups, and within
these their component individuals. Then we shall
be obliged to transfer the position of the camera
rapidly from place to place, we shall be obliged, in
the course of the oration, to change alternately from
long shot embracing both orator and audience to
separate closer shots, penetrating into the thick of
the mass, and glimpsing a group or single listener
reacting by shout or gesture. We shall inevitably
have to split up the one speech of the orator into
separate pieces, in order that they may be welded
in the process of editing into a whole with the
separate pieces of members of the audience reacting,
and thereby derive unity from the multiplicity of
many-imaged details.

It might be argued that, for the purpose of an
editing construction of this type, it is unnecessary
to break the whole speech of the orator into separate
pieces in the shooting. It might suffice to shoot the
speech as a whole and subsequently to chop it on
the cutting bench into the necessary separate pieces
interleaved with the given auditor pieces. But film
directors who strive to exploit the cinema's possi-
bilities to the full cannot follow this course. They
use not only words out of the orator's speech.
Realise what tremendous importance in the con-
struction of the whole image of man in action have

50 FILM ACTING

his gestures and his pantomime connected with his
utterances. This pantomime, at times of the most
fine and complex order, plays a part no less import-
ant than the intonation of the voice.

Now, the culmination of the impression effected by
an uttered word or sentence depends upon a move-
ment of the hand; again, the closing of the eyes may
add an unexpected touch of pathos to another word
or phrase. Only the cinema, by virtue of the
mobility of the camera, can so direct the excited
attention of the audience that, at any given moment
of his acting, the actor can, as it were, turn to the
audience his most poignant, most expressive, side.

And it is this method of shoving the play of the
actor right up under the nose of the audience that
inevitably necessitates the splitting of the single
process of the speech into separate pieces in the
actual shooting.

At one moment we see the face of the orator with
eyes tight shut. At another his whole body strain-
ing with arms held high. For an instant we catch
his glance directed straight at us. A nervous
movement of his hand behind his back may also
serve as a definite and colourful characterisation of
some moment.

Such material can only be obtained by shooting
bits of the speech separately, with change of
position of camera and microphone. Simultaneous
shooting by several cameras at once, placed at
separate points, will not give us an unhamperedly
sharp and vivid editing treatment on the screen,

THEORETICAL POSTULATES 51

because a camera placed for a close-up would be
bound to get in the way of a camera taking a
long-shot at the same time. Separate, interrupted
shooting is indispensable.

The question must be formulated simply in this
way: should the immensely rich possibilities afforded
by the cinema for the purpose of deepening the
play of the actor be sacrificed to the natural desire
of the actor to dwell in his acting image as wholly
and uninterruptedly as possible, or should one search
for means of helping him that none the less permit
these possibilities to be maintained and exploited to
maximum advantage ?

The difficulty of solving this problem is, basically,
the long and the short of the difficulty confronting
the cinema actor, and the methods and ways of
solving it are, in sum, the conditioning methods of
his technique.

We have already seen that this difficulty exists
also in the theatre. The break between two stage
entrances of an actor does not differ materially
from the break between two shots in the cinema.

The whole content of a stage play could, after all,
take the form of a single continuous speech that one
actor-speaker could utter without leaving the
boards. In general, however, the theatre variegates
its content, introducing action shared in by numer-
ous dramatic personam, and portraying directly
numerous deeds and events, not merely reporting
them in speech. It splits the course of the play
into acts, thereby eliminating chunks of time.

52 FILM ACTING

The actor could, really, remain on the stage
throughout the duration of a whole act without for a
second being switched from the action, but the
theatre as a rule insists on taking him off into the
wings, because realistic enlargement of the action
demands the introduction of new characters, and
these new characters must not only push various
old ones temporarily into the background, but even
from time to time squeeze them from the orbit of
the audience's attention altogether. Whereupon the
first actor must stand in the wings waiting for the
moment when the development of the play's action
will once more drag him front stage.

I repeat that this ' split-life,' this discontinuous
animation, of the stage actor, does not differ
organically from the € separate-shot-acting ' of the
film actor in the course of the shooting of a film.

The contradiction between the personality of the
actor and his striving in the process of his acting to
become a linked part of the whole circumstances
environing the wide sweep of development of a
realistic film, this contradiction, I repeat, exists
not only in theatre and in cinema, but is analogous
to the contradiction in creation general to all arts.

And, we must affirm once more, the solution of
this contradiction will be achieved not by its elimina-
tion, but by proper understanding of the significance
of the methods of acting technique, and consequently
of the means legitimate to employ.

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CHAPTER V
REHEARSAL WORK

What are the basic methods the actor finds ? We
have already seen that the theatre supports him in his
fight for organic unity of the acting image by means
of a detailed methodology of rehearsals.

In these rehearsals, obedient to the will of the
actors and producer, the stern temporal conditions
limiting the players are for a space removed and sub-
stituted by more unified and uninterrupted work
aiding the actor to link, in whatsoever direction may
be necessary, his live personality with the image he
plays.

At rehearsals the actor, free from breaks in time
or position, can link the separate pieces of his role
into one whole, can concretely live into his image,
checking it by a series of pieces of his role outside
the play, but undoubtedly organically belonging to
the image. In short, at rehearsals he can do all
that work which will enable him later on to feel every
separate piece of his role, however interrupted it
may be mechanically in the course of the perform-
ance, as his own, belonging to him, and if not
uninterrupted in the sense of his physical presence
on the stage, at least inwardly uninterrupted
in the unity of his feeling and understanding of
the role.

53

54 FILM ACTING

What do we do in the cinema in the way of
providing technical help to the actor in his difficult
creative work ? It must be admitted that this
assistance, where it is even given at all, is in most
producing collectives of an exceedingly perfunctory
character. Sometimes there are attempts at just a
preliminary working-through the script with the
actor by the director. The role is discussed, the
role is, in fact, talked all round and about, so-called
actor and director ' role-conferences ' take place.
Something on the lines of so-called c round-table
conferences ' in the theatre (work in the theatre pre-
liminary to rehearsals) takes place in the cinema to
a greater or lesser degree. But no practical pre-
liminary work with the actor on the lines of linking
the image found at the ' round-table conference '
with its outer expression, actually the basic starting-
point of the work needed to transform an actor
thinking about a role into an actor acting it, has
ever been used as a normal course.

In his preliminary work on the image the actor
has, quite ridiculously and unnecessarily, been
mechanically separated from practice, from the
concrete work on himself as a live, connectedly and
unitedly moving and speaking human being. The
actor has approached the work of being shot, a
process already requiring technically fixed and de-
fined methods of execution, quite unaided, and able
only academically to image to himself the general
meaning of his role, in no way having linked it to
his concrete live individuality. Such has been the

REHEARSAL WORK 55

position in the best cases; in the worst the actor
purely and simply has not known anything about his
role apart from the sum total of directorial instruc-
tions restricted to each piece being shot. Naturally,
each shot is proceeded by a sort of travesty of a
rehearsal, but this cannot be considered seriously,
for no antecedent work has ever been done upon it
to give it an inner link to the unity of the actor's
image.

It is this incorrect attitude to the tasks of acting
work that has given rise to the pseudo-theory of the
montage (edited) image (a theory for which no single
individual is responsible). This theory deduces,
from the fact that an impression of acting can be
composed mechanically by sticking pieces together,
the illegitimate assumption that separate pieces, not
connected inwardly within the actor, will neces-
sarily give an optimum result.

The true significance of the edited image is quite
different; it has considerable importance for the
cinema actor, and we shall speak of it later.

Just as in the theatre, so in the cinema, the
methodology of rehearsals is all-important for the
actor.

In fact, as we have already observed, this method-
ology is even more important in the cinema than in
the theatre, since the hyper-discontinuity of acting
work in shooting desiderates a correspondingly
especially clear, definite, and detailed absorption by
the actor of the wholeness of his role.

Systematic rehearsal work in the cinema prior to

56 FILM ACTING

shooting has so far been conducted only by way of
experiment.

I cannot speak of the work of the Experimental
Film Collectives, as they have made no verbal or
WTitten record of their experiences in this field. I
shall discuss the experiment of Kuleshov in his film :
The Great Consoler.1

Kuleshov wrote a shooting script, that is, a script
worked out in technical detail as it is to be shot on
the floor and edited afterwards. All tfre shots in
this script, numbered and with their numerical
order preserved, were transferred to a miniature
studio floor. In fact, prior to the shooting of the
film, he staged a performance consisting of very
short scenes each in length identical with the piece
later to be edited. As far as possible Kuleshov
played each scene through on the studio floor in such
a way that subsequently, after most careful rehearsal,
it could be transferred back to and shot without
alteration on the actual floor used in shooting.

His rehearsal system attained three results. First,
it achieved the preliminary work with the actor to
the deepest possible degree. Second, it gave the
executives the opportunity to c see ' the film, as it
were, before it was shot, and make in time any
correction or alteration that might be required.
And third, it reduced to a minimum the waste of
time during the preliminaries to each shot, which,
as is well known, in general run away with a great
deal of money.

1 A film blended of O. Henry's life and Alias Jimmy Valentine,

REHEARSAL WORK 57

The combination of these results gave Kuleshov's
work a somewhat peculiar style. First and foremost,
in striving at all costs to make the rehearsal perform-
ance an exact pattern of the future screen perform-
ance, Kuleshov undoubtedly not only rehearsed
his actors, but also to some extent adapted his film
to a form more convenient and simple for the carry-
ing out of the rehearsal.

It is not a coincidence that Kuleshov's film con-
tains few dramatis personae. It is not a coincidence
that Kuleshov has no crowd scenes. It is not a
coincidence that the extremely sparse and limited
exteriors take the shape either of empty country
roads or of city streets on which one never meets
a soul save those few dramatis personae.

Kuleshov, of course, wrote his script in this way,
set the action in these scenes, chose this subject and
this number of characters precisely to give himself
the chance to fit the film rapidly and easily into the
framework of a stage performance, one, moreover,
of necessity played on a stage rather especially
primitively fitted out.

I do not think this work of Kuleshov should be
treated as wrong in principle. The effort was un-
doubtedly a most interesting experiment. The
experiment was not wrong, but any mechanical
deduction that might be made from it along the line
of converting the method into a dogmatic recipe
to be used in the shooting of any and every film
would most undoubtedly be wrong.

Our task remains, of course, the finding of such

58 FILM ACTING

ways, such forms, and such methods of adjusting a
rehearsal period as will in no wise handicap the
film in the field of its exploration of every possible
wide and rich development.

We are still faced with the problem how to organ-
ise preparatory rehearsal work on a film which
definitely and markedly strives to develop along
cinematic lines, that is, including a series of scenes
embracing a large spacial canvas, locations, and
circumstances such as cannot be reproduced on a
rehearsal floor.

We must not and cannot pander to a desire to
play the future film through on a rehearsal floor to
the extent of eliminating from it elements which,
though they have no direct physical link with the
actor in his acting, yet none the less contribute to
the film the power and richness that make it a truly
cinematic work of art.

In my view the discovery of the correct methods
for the rehearsal period will only be attained by
keeping clearly and exclusively to our main purpose.
This purpose is, of course, the actor's work on his
acting image. All the rest, the demonstration of the
whole film to the executives, the learning by rote of
set-ups in advance (which latter is, in fact, never
completely possible unless the film limits the canvas
it shoots to the space within the studio walls), must
be subordinated to the maximum fostering of con-
ditions aiding the actor to solve his main technical
problem — embodiment in the image.

What, then, are the main postulates of the method-

REHEARSAL WORK 59

ology of the rehearsal period ? First let us consider
the editing structure set out in the sheets of the
shooting script. The sheets of the shooting script
list a series of short pieces. Nearly every element of
the actor's behaviour linked to the inner order of the
action is interspersed with numerous pieces showing
the audience either parallel action by other actors
at quite a different location, or epically developed
elements of events into which the actor is incor-
porated by developments of the general action, or
both.

Suppose such a scene : a person in a room is talking
to a man who excitedly awaits a meeting with his
brother. The brother is expected by air. The
excited wait is interrupted by the ring of a telephone
bell. Information is given that the aeroplane is
about to land. On the screen the action changes
to an aerodrome where we see the plane landing and
a sudden crash that causes the death of the brother
arriving. The next piece to follow portrays the
waiting brother receiving the terrible news.

Should one in the rehearsal period strive to work
out separately the two pieces of the state of the wait-
ing man, separated as they will be on the screen by
the conventionalised plane crash ?

For work with the actor this would not only be
unnecessary, but wrong and harmful. The only
correct course is to rehearse both pieces in con-
junction, thus enabling the actor to stay in the
acting image without interruption, and to replace
the specifically cinematic element of the portrayal

60 FILM ACTING

of the crash by a single telephone call announcing
the disaster.

Suppose on the screen an actor, fleeing from pur-
suit, swim a river, and meet on the opposite bank
a man whom he was seeking in order to deliver to
him some message, it would, of course, be futile and
stupid to waste time and energy by staging an actual
swim across a river during the rehearsal period.
What is important for the actor during rehearsal
is the presence somewhere in his role of a serious
obstacle requiring to be successfully negotiated, and
the inclusion of this sensation of recent victory over
the obstacle in his feeling during his conversation
with the person met beyond the river. In rehearsal
conditions, any physical obstacle could serve as
equivalent for the river, a window, for example,
through which he might have to climb, or a door he
might break down, before entering the room.

I choose obvious examples of this kind in order
to make clear the simple point that the separate
shots (or editing pieces) of the shooting script,
divided into its multitudinous incidents, an abun-
dance of which cannot be reproduced on the stage,
should properly be transmuted into some other form
for the actor to facilitate his concentration in re-
hearsal on the absorption of the unity of the acting
image.

This new form of script might be termed an
- actor's script.5 In an actor's script the separate
pieces concerning him would be approximated to
one another for the paramount purpose of preserving

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REHEARSAL WORK 61

for him as far as possible a longer duration and less
interruption in his acting. The whole material of
the director's editing or shooting script would be
preserved. Only it would be rearranged in a new
sequence, enabling nearer approximation of the
shots in the actor's role, thus giving him larger
pieces of united inner movement.

Of course, such a linking up of the separate
pieces in a role will in some cases entail the replace-
ment of certain pieces by equivalents, as in the just
instanced case of the telephone ring instead of the
plane crash.

The actual task of translating a shooting script
into actor's scripts is certainly one which requires
considerable practical experience for its proper
performance. But its purpose is clear and simple.

Stage practice, particularly the practice of the
Stanislavski school in the matter of € interval ' or
1 hiatus ' pieces in rehearsal alluded to by us before,
can be particularly fruitful for film rehearsals.

Kozintsev has stated that during rehearsal work
with the actors on his latest film, The Youth of Maxim,
he concentrated solely on those parts of the role
outside the actual action of the film.

The point of his observation is, once again, the
fact that the main problem of director and actor
invariably boils down to the establishment in re-
hearsal of the inner unity of any given piece with the
role as a whole.

So as not to confuse the actor with theatrical
conventions alien to the cinema, the director must

62 FILM ACTING

surround him at rehearsal with real equivalents
practical within the limits of a stage or rehearsal
room. So as not to force the actor to waste energy
in imagining such things as rivers that he will meet
in the actual story, the director and actors in re-
hearsal add equivalent pieces, enabling the inner
content of the actor's behaviour to remain un-
changed, the river he will have to swim being
replaced by some analogous obstacle such as those I
have already suggested.

Let me once again emphasise the extreme danger
of introducing into cinema rehearsal work specifically
theatrical conventions unconnected with actual
problems of shooting.

Kuleshov's method of solving the rehearsal prob-
lem by having the whole future film played over on
the floor involves such a danger.

I repeat once more, also with emphasis, that an
* actor's script • such as I describe requires careful,
meticulous, and profound modification to replace
real-life conditions set out in the editing script with
equivalent real conditions practicable for the re-
hearsal stage. And this process can no doubt best
be effected in actual concert with the actor.

We should approach the problem wrongly if we
excluded a priori from this process all possibility of
creative work on the script by the actor himself.

The beginning and end of the old system was its
orientation around the reduction of the actor's work
to an almost mechanical performance of a ' task '
allotted him by the director. We shall never escape

REHEARSAL WORK 63

from the old system of treating the actor as a prop,
as a type, if we do not set the question of creative
inter-influence of actor and director right at the fore-
front of work on the film, already at the stage
preceding shooting.

Hitherto the actor, encountering only the com-
plexly constructed shooting script of the director,
able to envisage his own future work only abstractly,
has been deprived of the possibility of determining
clearly and concretely any possible disagreement he
might have with the directorial conception of the
part. I suggest that an ' acting script ' and re-
hearsal work with it will provide that now missing
concrete basis for a creative mutual influencing of
actor and director.

The director's will and effort are devoted to maxi-
mal expression of the whole of the film, and his work
on the editing or shooting script is oriented from this
angle, exploiting in this script all the wealth of the
specific methods provided him by the technique of
the cinema. But subsequently he should compress
the shots in this shooting script into an acting script.
This new acting or rehearsal script would not merely
represent the solution of the given shooting problems
as set out in the shooting script, but also the concrete
fulfilment of the requirements postulated by the
actor's need for aid in maintaining unity and
vividness in his image. From this script, in the
process of rehearsal, new data would doubtless be
forthcoming, justifying a second edition of the shoot-
ing script, inevitably, quite properly and to creative

64 FILM ACTING

advantage replacing the first. And only in this
last form would the script actually go forward for
shooting.

This is a means, it seems to me, whereby might be
achieved a real linking of the actor to the unity of
the work of the whole shooting collective.

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CHAPTER VI
THE EDITING IMAGE

We now come to the shaping of the editing image.
This concept, the subject of the most acrimonious
controversy, is in fact the crux of the novel and
different nature of the cinema, distinguishing it
from the theatre.

When the stage actor works on his inward embodi-
ment into the acting image, his work is bound inex-
tricably with two tasks: firstly, the search for its
external form of expression — voice, gesture, grimace
— and secondly, the clear consideration of that
general ideological tendency of his role that links his
work with the performance as a whole and with each
of its details separately.

Let us analyse the first task. In working on his
external expressiveness, the stage actor naturally
moulds the whole process of his acting into a
rhythmic form. His speech receives in delivery in-
tonational emphasis or weakening according to
whether he wishes at any given movement to seize
and hold the audience by the c content * or the
c emotional ' side of his speech. In his pattern of
movements and gesture he also creates moments of
rise and fall, of vividness and restraint, of strength
and weakness. But an actor moving and speaking
on the stage always remains at relatively the same

65

66 FILM ACTING

constant distance from the spectators, in a position
in space more or less constant in respect to them.
For the spectators to see his hand, he must show it
to them; for the spectators to see his face, he must turn
it to them; for the spectators to hear his whisper,
he must raise it to the level of loudness.

The cinema has to create its analogous rhythm of
externally expressive form in a different manner. I
have already described how the camera and micro-
phone can move to approach or recede from the
actor, how they can espy the finest movements of his
body, eavesdrop the most delicate intonations of
his voice. By this means the acting of the actor,
treated in long shot and in close shot, angled from
various set-ups, is rendered especially vivid and
expressive.

If the stage actor, in the course of working out the
maximum external expressiveness of his role, wish,
at some given moment of the performance, to centre
the whole attention of the audience on, let us sup-
pose, his smile following the word ' No/ then he
knows perfectly well that not only must his word be
spoken well and his smile smiled well, but that the
audience must listen to the word and watch the
smile especially attentively.

For this purpose, the actor uses in support of the
stage delivery of his role all the complex mechanism
of theatre technique. He can use sets, or composi-
tion of the action in them, leading the attention of
the audience away from his colleagues and fixing it,
precisely at the crucial moment, on himself. He can

THE EDITING IMAGE 67

use a pause immediately following, spotlights, con-
centrating their light on him alone.

In the cinema all this complicated system of
methods can be reduced to a single close-up. The
close-up in the cinema is an integral part of the
rhythm of external expression of the actor.

The editing of separate camera angles in the cinema is the
more vivid and expressive equivalent of the technique that
obliges a stage actor who has inwardly absorbed his acting
image to ' theatricalise ' its outer form.

The film actor must clearly understand that the
moving of the camera from place to place is not
simply a means of realising purely directorial
methods. The understanding and feel of the possi-
bilities of the shooting of shots from various angles
must be organically included in the process of the
actor's own work on the external shaping of his role.

The film actor must feel the urge and the necessity
for a given camera position for the shooting of any
given piece of his role in precisely the same way as a
stage actor feels the necessity, at a given point in the
course of his role, for making an especially empha-
sised gesture, or for advancing to the footlights, or for
ascending two steps of a scenery stairs.

The actor must appreciate that it is in this very
movement of the camera that lies latent that essential
sensitivity that removes work in the field of art from
the sphere of shapeless naturalism.

However profoundly the stage actor embodies him-
self into his role in the course of his work on the
image, he must not, and in fact does not, forget the

68 FILM ACTING

need always to consider also the objective content
and value of the final result — his behaviour in acting
on the stage during the actual performance por-
trayed to the audience. The image, however
deeply absorbed by the actor, does not exist in the
performance as a separate entity. Linked by the
course of the action, it is subject to the complex
interplay and mutual influence of all the forces
comprising the performance as a whole.

The supremely important social class significance
of the actor's performance is determined by the per-
formance as a whole. There is not an element in
the performance, be it the acting of a colleague, or
the material composition of a scene, but must be
linked to the final form of the whole and therefore of
the remaining parts. Even during the very first
moments of work on the image, when the actor is
mainly seeking and feeling for ways of embodying
himself as a given individual in the image he intends
to play, he is yet clearly conscious of and sets before
himself as his aim the figure sketched out by the
libretto of the play, wlxich figure eventually will move
and speak upon the boards. He appreciates what
the future stage image is and how it is embedded in
the entirety of the performance. But on the stage
the actor who sought and shaped the role yet re-
mains in the finally discovered and shaped perform-
ance a live person. The image he finally finds and
fixes in himself and in the performance, he never
separates from himself as from a living, feeling, and
speaking person.

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THE EDITING IMAGE 69

In the film it is quite otherwise. The culminating
achievement of the actor's work — in the theatre the
stage image — is in the cinema something of a quite
different order. As final result appears the edited
image — a screen image of the actor, recorded and
fixed once and for all upon the film, a final and
optimum version of his work's achievement, which,
quite apart from any other distinction, has in the
course of its expression been subjected to a technical
finishing process quite impossible of application to a
living being.

Just as in the unity of the stage show the image of
the actor is c produced ' in the fullness of its content
by the complex interaction of all the forces comprised
in the performance, so in the cinema the separate
pieces of shot acting of the actor are moulded into a
unified image the unity and orientation of which are
determined not merely by the unity found by the
actor within himself, but also by the exceedingly
complex interaction of those many pieces containing
alien phenomena, situated exterior to the actor.

The most comprehensive, the profoundest lines
determining the content of the image, are discern-
ible, of course, only when the whole composition of
the film is available.

We have already noted that the wealth of events
of the world of reality which the cinema can embrace
is much wider than that accessible to the theatre.
While the relationship between a given actor and
the whole performance is on the stage determined
principally in the conflict between the actor and his

70 FILM ACTING

colleague, an actor using dialogue like himself, in the
cinema the actor encounters not only man. In the
completed film the acting actor is brought into rela-
tionship with the whole tremendous complexity of
objective reality, and in this respect therefore is
placed in a position nearer to that of a part of a
literary work than to that of a dramatis persona in a
play.

Thus the concept of the edited image by no means
implies (as some have sought to declare) a negation
of the necessity for unified work by the actor on his
role. The concept of the edited image is by no
means an affirmation of the doctrine that the film
actor is merely a type actor providing piecemeal
material for mechanical composition into a pseudo-
whole in the process of editing.

On the contrary, this concept, analogous to that
of the stage image, demands from the film actor
firstly a knowledge of how consciously to exploit the
possibilities of vari-angled shooting for the purposes
of his work on the external shaping of his role, and,
secondly, clear consideration of its creative place in
the edited composition of the whole film, in order
that he may understand and bring out the most
comprehensive and profound bases of his acting.

In stage work there exists a clear and precise con-
cept, the ensemble; in the creation of the ensemble
participates not only the producer, but also each
separate actor, building his work in direct connec-
tion with the whole of the performance. In the
cinema the equivalent concept has reached in its

THE EDITING IMAGE 71

shaping almost the limit of technical precision. A
film, a work the material of which includes the acting
of actors, can attain, in the exactitude and precision
of its rhythmic construction, the exactitude of the
rhythmic construction of a musical composition.
Hence the especial strictness and rigidity of the
requirements to which film actors must subordinate
their work in the course of its external shaping, those
film actors, that is, who value not only their own
roles, but the film as a whole.

The stage actor knows well that an unhappily
chosen or badly played tune preceding his speech
can not only damage but distort the role he is trying
to create. The film actor must understand that a
piece of a landscape or some other phenomenon,
either preceding or following the piece with his
acting in it, will indubitably enter as a component
into the line of his image as it will be apprehended
by the audience watching the screen.

The edited image is that final and definite form
that enters into interaction with the third element
comprising the work of art — the spectator. In dis-
tinction from the stage image, it is divorced from the
living actor, and for this very reason, in order not to
lose realistic unity, must be conceived by the actor
and thought out carefully from the very first stages
of his work on himself and his role.

While on the stage the actor can more exactly
adjust his place in the whole during the actual course
of the second performance to the audience, the film
does not give him this opportunity. Further, the

72 FILM ACTING

work of the actor in endeavouring to reach sharpest
apprehension of the film as a whole is more complex
and difficult. Therefore it must be regarded as
particularly paradoxical that this side of his work,
the study of his relation to the film as a whole, is far
more deeply provided for in the theatre than in the
cinema.

Here we should mention still another difficulty
characteristic of the work of the film actor. In the
theatre exists the so-called c living link ' between an
actor and his emotionalised audience. It is a well-
known fact that performances of a show differ, and
that this difference depends on and is caused by
differences of audience composition. There exists an
abundance of stories concerning notable actors and
how the living reaction of audiences has forced them
at various times to find new business for their roles,
or to discard business they had previously found
and used.

All stage actors declare that they derive the real
high-pressure tension and inspiration necessary for
full value in their acting only from the feeling of
the audience being moved.

In the cinema we are in the presence of an entirely
new phenomenon: never, not even during the most
important moment of his acting, when the actor is
face to face with the camera recording his final
achievement, has he the chance to feel directly the
reaction of a single spectator. He can imagine his
spectator only as a future spectator.

In the c living link * between actor and spectator

THE EDITING IMAGE 73

should be distinguished two elements, which we shall
analyse separately in their relation to the cinema.

The two elements are these: first, the general
excitement and inspiration felt by the stage actor
aware of thousands of eyes centred upon him, con-
scious of a thousand-fold concentration of attention
upon his acting, and second, the presence of the
living reaction of the audience, as it were itself
taking part in the creative process of the develop-
ment of the role, and thereby helping the actor.

The first element, direct consciousness in the actor
of the multiple spectator, is completely absent in the
cinema. At the moment of shooting, the actor sees
in front of him only the dumb mechanisms of the
camera and sound-recording apparatus. The sys-
tem used for lighting, which entails the surrounding
of the actor with lamps, seems also as though deliber-
ately engaged in isolating him into the space allotted
for the taking of the scene, a space so small that
sometimes the actor is even cut off from seeing the
whole of the room in which the action takes place.

But does it follow that the feeling of an audience
and the creative excitement and inspiration deriving
from the audience are thereby necessarily excluded
from the work of the film actor ? I hold that it does
not. True, this feeling of the audience can come
into existence only in a new and peculiar manner.

I remember a conversation with the now late
V. V. Mayakovski.1 He told me once about the
feeling he experienced when, during the years of

1 Committed suicide in 1932. — Tr.

74 FILM ACTING

revolution, he declaimed his verses to an enormous
crowd that had collected in front of the balcony of
the building of the Moscow Soviet.

V. V. complained that nowadays he never felt
that tremendous inspiration he did then. Only in
one circumstance, he said, do I feel the same excite-
ment, if not an even greater than in those days, and
that is when I make a speech on the wireless.

I maintain that Mayakovski was completely and
utterly sincere. It is interesting that to a man like
him, who undoubtedly had organically lived and
nourished his creative process on the reaction of the
mass audience, the broadcasting studio did not feel
like a solitary confinement cell isolating him from
his listeners. That creative imagination which is
part and parcel of every great artist, which makes
him one with and related to all the world of reality,
enabled him not only to appreciate intellectually,
but to feel directly, that the words spoken into the
microphone spread immediately over a gigantic
area and became received by millions of attentive
listeners.

Let us be clear that Mayakovski was not referring
to an intellectual understanding of the importance
of wireless, but to a direct excitement and in-
spiration caused in him by work before the micro-
phone. Once more I repeat that Mayakovski likened
this excitement to that which he had felt when
directly before him he had seen listening a crowd
thousands strong.

I consider that for a film actor who really and truly

THE EDITING IMAGE 75

lives in his art the possibility of such an excitement is
not excluded. On the stage an actor plays before
hundreds of persons, in the film actually before
millions. Here is a dialectical instance of quantity
increasing over the boundary into quality to give
rise to a new kind of excitement, not less real and,
of course, not less significant.

Let us turn to the second element. The collabora-
tion in creation on the part of the spectator, his living
reaction to the acting, his acceptance and applause
of the right and felicitous, his cold repudiation of
anything mistaken — none of this, also, can be
present in the taking of a film.

Hence, I urge, upon the director, who is the one
and only witness of the acting during the shooting of
a film, reposes an especial responsibility, in no way
corresponding to any equivalent in the theatre. The
solitude of the actor during the taking of the scenes
weighs upon him. The director, of course, if he
desire to give the actor the maximum of help, if he
wish to create for him the optimum conditions for
free, easy, and sincere acting, can so react to the
work of the actor as to become for him a fine,
responsive, and friendly — if sole — spectator.

I put forward this point in all seriousness, the pos-
sibility for the director to make the actor believe in
him not merely as a theoretician, as a thinker and
mentor, but also as a directly affected, either
admiring or disappointed, spectator.

The finding of this inner contact between director
and actor, the establishment of a profound mutual

76 FILM ACTING

trust and respect, is one of the most paramountly
important of all the problems in the technique of
the work of a film collective.

My own practice in working with actors, which I
must confess myself quite unable up to date to
codify into any coherent or unified form that might
in any degree be called a system, is based entirely on
this contention, that all the most important moments
of an actor's work are based absolutely on this trust
in me on the part of the actor.

I recall how, taking full advantage of the silence
of the cinema in the old days, I used literally to be
unable to restrain myself from uttering words of
excited praise that reached and encouraged the
actor in the middle of his acting by reason of their
obvious and complete sincerity.

It is of interest to mention here that Baranovskaia
in Mother categorically declared to me (we were then
about half-way through the film) that she could not
act unless I were in my accustomed place beside the
camera. I cite this, declaration as further confirma-
tion of the fact that the presence of the director re-
sponsively reacting to the actor's acting is an organic
necessity for the latter. I recall that I have invari-
ably tried to establish the most intimate personal
relationship possible with all the actors playing prin-
cipal roles in my films before the actual work of
shooting began. I have always regarded it as im-
portant to win in advance the deep-seated trust of
the acting ensemble, so that later the actors could
fall back on this trust and not feel solitary.

Baranovskaya, actress, as the mother.
XIV " Mother," Pudovkin.

THE EDITING IMAGE 77

Many speak of the inevitability of a duality in the
actor during his acting, when with one side of him-
self he lives and plays in the acting image, and with
the other as though controls this play objectively.
In my view this second, controlling side, is not at all
a kind of imaginary spectator dwelling within the
actor. This second side must, inevitably, be rooted
in the living spectator existing external to the actor;
it takes into account and bases itself on the former's
reaction, fulfilling its essential purpose in doing so,
for otherwise the actor would be locking himself
within his own subjective circle and becoming a
coldly abstract phantom.

I believe that the coldness and externally mechani-
cal formalisation of acting often encountered in the
cinema can usually be explained by coldness and
mechanical formalisation in the directors method of
work with the actor in shooting.

I emphasise that the decisive importance of the
work of the director on the actor in shooting is
characteristic for the cinema, and no equivalent
obtains with anything like equal sharpness in the
theatre.

Let us note here, deriving from this, one more
characteristic difference between stage and film
technique in acting.

In the theatre the actor must not only find the
image, absorb it, approximate himself to the external
forms of its expression, sense the necessary rhythmic
forms of its playing and its link with the show as a
whole, but he must during the repeated rehearsals

78 FILM ACTING

fix all this and ' can ' it in a definite shape. Although
it is not disputed that at each subsequent perform-
ance the actor will continue in a degree to develop
his role, yet the element of learning by rote, fixing,
and c canning ' his acting is inevitably present in the
theatre to a considerable degree, Thus the stage
producer at a given point cedes his place to the
spectator, and the show reaches its perfect form
without, already, his direct participation.

In the cinema the burden of the element of
' canning ' and memorising is removed from the
minds of actor and director by the mechanism of the
visual and sound cameras and by the laboratory,
which indefinitely multiplies copies from a single
negative. In fact, until the very last, the culminat-
ing moment of their joint creative work, the actor
and the director in the cinema march in the liveliest
and most direct contact.

CHAPTER VII
DIALOGUE

We now proceed to the next element in the film
actor's work which offers special difficulties. This
is the absence, occurring in certain circumstances,
of the opposite number in a duologue. We can
scarcely imagine an instance of an actor in the theatre
being obliged to talk to an opposite number in reality
absent. In the cinema this happens time and again
owing to technical complications resulting from the
desire to exploit the method of editing in construc-
tion of dialogue.

The stage, of course, is familiar with what is
termed monologue, where the actor's direct opposite
number in dialogue is the audience. But the
cinema has a host of very different examples.

To cite an obvious one, let us take the case of a
scene in which an actor addresses a crowd of Mon-
gols, responding to their reactions. Quite likely the
actor's words would be recorded separately in
Moscow and joined up with pieces of scenes taken
in Siberia.

Certainly it is possible to counter this example
with arguments, valid to some extent, denying the
necessity, at least in the normal course, for breaches
of this kind in the living linkage of the protagonists
of the general action. But I hold that such breaches,

79

80 FILM ACTING

perhaps usually less crude and of less degree, are
inescapable in cinema. Let us take as another
case a continuous close-up incorporating several
separate dialogue bits, and for which the actor,
instead of the connected development of the
dialogue, receives only the short opening cue.

Granted that we remove all the technical difficul-
ties deriving from faulty organisation of production,
I think we must and shall be able to find means
whereby, without losing a jot of the wealth of
possible methods of editing treatment of dialogue,
we shall yet be able to realise in practice a preserva-
tion of the live link between the actor and his
opposite even in such work.

In the silent days it was easier. There one could
build around an actor to be taken in close-up a
background as complicated as might be wished and
eliminate it in shooting by the angle from which
the camera was trained upon the actor.

In the sound film matters are more difficult.
The microphone cannot set exact limits to its sensi-
tivity. The microphone picks up all the sounds
occurring around it up to a given strength and dis-
tance away, consequently the actor can only be
isolated in close-up by eliminating in actuality any
and every sound not meant to be recorded in the
given section of film. In the silent film one could
remove everything superfluous for the finished film
and needed only by the actor to help him in his
playing, not only by means of the isolating frame of
the lens in the given camera set-up, but also by use

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DIALOGUE 8 1

of the directorial scissors, which could snip off the
introductory business needed by the actor to get into
his stride for the given acting moment. At first
glance it might seem that in sound cinema both
these avenues are closed. Practice, however, has
found ways round the difficulty.

As a rule, the sound film can be taken just as freely
as the silent, relying upon possible future alteration
on the cutting bench of the material obtained. The
words of an opposite number, the exhortations of the
director, any and all noise accretions required by the
actor for living intercourse with the human beings
surrounding him in the process of shooting, can be
removed by the scissors, always supposing there has
been exact and correct organisation of the material
during the taking of the scene.

A piece which, edited on the screen, comprises
only a short moment of the actor's acting can equally
in sound film be shot as a longish piece of acting,
only the culminating moment of which forms the
piece used in editing construction. The beginning
and end of the piece can be cut away by the
scissors.

Working out methods for this is simply a question
of developing the practical side. This practical side
must simply develop, guided always by common
sense, along the line of maximum assistance to the
actor in enabling him to stay as long and connectedly
as possible in the acting image. The sound record
on the film is, in general, as pliable a material as the
picture film on which the image is recorded. This

82 FILM ACTING

record can be cut and edited, more — on occasion
must be cut and edited.1

Let us consider, for example, the pauses that sepa-
rate from one another separate significant moments
in the speech of one or several actors. Not always
can these pauses be recorded in reality. Consider
an instance we have already discussed.

An orator is addressing a listening crowd. His
words are interrupted by general hubbub, applause,
individual shouts and yells. In taking such a scene,
not even a director most set in stagy treatment of the
cinema and most scornful of the paramountcy of
editing would be content with only one long shot
showing the scene as a whole, and not transfer the
camera from the orator to various of the individual
listeners reacting to his speech and back again. But
with shooting in this way, in separate pieces, the
pause that separates a completed sentence, or a part
of a sentence left incomplete, on the part of the
orator from the shout of listeners or the latter's
applause would not be recorded. Inasmuch as the
two pieces — orator and listener — have been shot
separately, the length of the pause on the screen will
depend not on its length in reality, but on the

1 In most sound systems used in the West, a cut sound track results
at its point of junction (in spite of sound-masking measures, such as
the so-called blupe splice) in a definite if slight * plop.' A great deal
of elimination of surplus sound, or combination on a single track of
sounds recorded separately, is effected therefore not by cutting, but
by what is called * re-recording.' In theory this does not affect
Pudovkin's principle of possible pliability here enunciated, but in
practice — owing to the fact that a new celluloid track is dearer than
a scissors snip — it does affect the extent to which that pliability is
in fact utilised. — Tr.

DIALOGUE 83

amount of blank film the director inserts at the end
of the orator's phrase and before that of the shouting
listener.

From this example we see that in the process of
filmic construction arises constantly the necessity to
create in editing elements that enter integrally into
the tissue of the live actor's acting. Later we shall
see more clearly still how this very element, a pause,
an element the tremendous importance of which is
familiar to every stage actor, is inevitably dependent
on the directorial scissors, that is, on the skill and
instinct of the director. Here is a reason, one of
many, for finding a way of making possible a direct
participation by the actor even in the editing of
the film.

The work of editing, of cutting and joining to-
gether the pieces of acted film, demands subtle effort
of the utmost creative importance in the field of
sensing the rhythm of dialogue. Theoretically, it is
perfectly possible for the actor, in concert with the
director, to set the final polish on the former's acting
solely by manipulating his screen image and screen
voice recorded on pieces of film.

There is no reason why the work of the real actor
should terminate before the editing process. The
actor should take a direct creative part in it, he must
clearly feel editing as the process of finally polishing
the shape of things.

I am so stubborn in emphasising the necessity for
the actor thus to participate in the editing, because
hitherto it has been a course in practice scarcely ever

84 FILM ACTING

adopted, and in consequence has led to the preval-
ence of a most incorrect idea of creative editing as a
period during which the dictator-director mutilates
and damages the living work of the actor in the
interests of the ritual inventions of his directorial
mind.

The actor should be as close to the editing as the
director. He should feel that he can lean upon him
at every stage of the work. Editing should be precious
to him, as shaping of his performance into the ensemble is
precious to the stage actor, and he should be similarly eager
and anxious for its success and the final linkage of every
element of his work into the whole.

I wish to turn back for a moment to our discussion
of the living link between actor and theatre audience.

The reacting spectator will only correctly and pro-
foundly apprehend the show when the producer and
actor, by means of the exhaustive use of all the re-
sources of their technique (using the term in its
broadest sense), have succeeded in correctly guiding
his attention. If the spectator for some reason or
other at a given moment of the show look, not at the
hero when the action hangs on the words of the hero,
but at some secondary character walking about in
the corner of the stage, the smooth crescendo of the
action is bound to be broken. The spectator will
receive an impression other than that intended by
author, producer, and actor.

The technique of the stage has the effect of guiding
the awakened attention exclusively along a channel
creatively planned and discovered as the optimum

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DIALOGUE 85

form for portrayal of the material of the show. And
each individual actor knows that, in the execution
of his role, his stage technique must help him at the
suitable moment to concentrate attention only on
himself, at times even only on some detail of his
acting, or, alternatively, to efface himself and thereby
transfer the spectator's attention to a colleague.

This process determines the rhythm of the show,
that rhythm that is, in fact, the breath of life of any
work of art, the rhythm that moves the audience and
which, in actual fact, determines that excitation of
the spectator without which no work of art can
properly be regarded as such.

The induction of the spectator into the rhythm of
the show and the inducing of him to follow it con-
stitute one of the most difficult problems of the
theatre. In the cinema the technique of editing is
brought in to help solve it.

Let me recall here the principles on which I tried
to build the screen dialogue in Deserter. Imagine
four people sitting in a room. They are talking to
each other. We know that when a spectator sees
four characters seated spaced out on a stage, his
attention, rendered intent by rhythm, moves from
one character to another in obedience to definite
laws. Now he looks at the speaker, now at the
listeners, now at a particular one of them. This
transference of his attention is, in fact, dictated to
him by the line of the inner content of the scene.
Each of the four actors has a definite significance in
the development of the action. Their interlocking,

86 FILM ACTING

the dependence of the possible actions of one on the
words of the other, is what causes the spectator to
throw his attention from one dramatis persona to
another, and the temporal and spacial diagram of
this transference is naturally in direct causal rela-
tionship to the importance the spectator grants at
each given moment to the given dramatis persona.

We know that the cinema, with its camera capable
of movement and its consequent close-up, has the
possibility of selecting only that object necessary at
a given moment as though concentrating the
spectator's attention upon it. The non-stationary
camera as though takes upon itself the responsible
task of dictating to the spectator the precise rhythm
and sequence of attention transference that has
been planned in advance by author, director, and
actor. The cinema does not leave the spectator
the freedom allowed him by the stage.

The rhythmic construction of a scene editably shot
and then presented upon the screen achieves, as we
have said, a precision and exactitude only paralleled
by that of music.

I shall take three various possible forms of edited
dialogue (these by no means exhaust the possibili-
ties).

First, let us imagine one of the four actors is
speaking. We see on the screen only the speaker;
we hear the question he asks of one of his com-
panions. The spectator awaits the answer to the
question. In the theatre he would have turned his
head and looked at the person who was going to

DIALOGUE 87

answer, whereas in the cinema, the director, sensing
the inevitability of this impulse on the part of the
spectator, replaces with lightning speed the image
of the questioner with the image of the person ques-
tioned. The spectator first sees this actor, then
hears the expected answer. In the edited sound film
the image of the actor appears narrowly in advance
of his words.

Now case two. A person is speaking; we see him
on the screen. He finishes speaking, but our interest
is still centred on him for some reason — probably we
expect him to continue his speech. At this moment,
however, one of the others join in; we hear his
words, but for the moment we do not see him, and
only when the impact of his words on our conscious-
ness has aroused our interest, do we turn our head to
look at him. The edited sound film is so con-
structed that a portion of the words of the second
actor is heard over the image of the first, and the
image of the second actor, a fraction delayed,
appears only after a given lapse of time. Here the
sound precedes the image.

The third case. A person speaks; we are inter-
ested in the reaction of the other actors to this speech.
We watch them as they listen to the continuing
speaker. Our attention is transferred back and
forth from speaker to listeners and again to speaker.
In the sound film follow alternately images of the
speaking actor and the listening actors with the
words of the speaking actor constant over the images
of both.

88 FILM ACTING

If we analyse carefully these simplest examples of
forms of edited dialogue, we see that we have here
two complementary kinds of rhythm marching side
by side. The first is a sound-dialogue rhythm in
which words alternate with pauses, a question is
succeeded by an answer. And these speeches and
pauses alternate in the same way as they do in
objective reality. The dialogue is here recorded, as
it could be if played through on a theatre stage.

What, now, is the second kind of rhythm, that of
the alternation of the images of the individual actors?

We have seen in these examples how the alterna-
tion of the images may not always coincide with the
alternation of the voices of the given actors. The
image is at times ahead of the appearance of a new
voice, at times behind, or changes rhythmically
during the continuous speech of one and the same
voice. The alternation of images here fundamen-
tally represents the emotional and intellectual atti-
tude of the spectator towards the content of the
dialogue, towards the content of each role, towards
each of the persons taking part in the given scene.

In fact, when a director edits a scene, he estimates
by how much the words should precede the image,
or the image the words. It stands to reason, for
example, that, if the importance at the given moment
of the actor who has just finished speaking be con-
siderable, then the spectator must be offered a con-
siderable portion of the words of another speaker
before he will tear his attention away from the first
and transfer it to the second.

DIALOGUE 89

While if, conversely, the argument of the second be
impatiently awaited by the eager spectator, being
anticipated as vital and important in the course of
the development of the action, then a single syllable
may suffice to swing the attention of the spectator
away from first to second.

Hence we perceive that the process of editing does
not imply a purely mechanical function of separate
images. The combination of the two complemen-
tary rhythms — objectively recorded speech and
edited image — yields as result the entire revelation
of the significance of the scene; it is the means where-
by the director hints to the spectator the requi-
site attitude to the scene that will reveal its inner
content, and indeed also the relationship of that
content to the unity of the whole of the film.

Hence we repeat once more, the interrelationship
of pieces determined in the editing treatment of a
scene is no mere mechanical matter. It is a problem
solution of which involves the profoundest generalisa-
tion of the content of the scene. In resolving it,
there must be borne in mind the relative importance
of every character, or, from another point of view,
the logical course of interest of the eager spectator,
for the rhythm here found will determine the actual
course of his attention, and therefore, in the end, the
unity and clarity of his reaction to the film.

CHAPTER VIII
DUAL RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE

One of the most important elements in the solution
of the problems of sound cinema is the knowledge
and ability to master the possibilities offered by the
cinema in duality of sound and image rhythm. In
attempting to realise these possibilities, the director
in editing makes himself the first, as it were the
fundamental spectator. For the purpose of getting
the very best out of the actor, as we have seen, the
actor himself can be included in this editing work.
And if so, in this process is developed and utilised in
its appropriate function that second side of the actor
that in the theatre supervises and checks from the
spectator's angle, as it were, by responding to
audience reaction.

To realise his full value in the cinema, the actor
can and should not only play his role, but be cap-
able, as well as the director, of bringing to life in the
editing process the editing treatment planned,
thereby compelling the spectator to accept, in its
creatively found due proportion and significance, fhe
role he plays. By sharing in the discovery of the
appropriate forms of rhythmic alternation of pieces
of image and sound, the actor shares in the persua-
sion of the spectator to the desired inner valuation

90

RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 91

of his acting in any given scene in its relation to
the whole.

What follows here does not bear directly on the
acting of actors in film, but for information, since it
is desirable that actors should fully understand all
the possibilities of film and editing, I should like to
cite one example of editing from Deserter, showing a
combination of the two rhythmic lines of sound
and image in accordance with a principle entirely
different from that already described.

In the simple examples of the editing of dialogue
elements already given, it has chanced that the
sounds reproduced the line of reality objectively,
whereas the image represented the subjective atti-
tude to reality of the spectator.

The combination could, of course, equally easily
be effected vice versa; that is, the image could be
fixed objectively in the line of reality, the sound
could render the subjective valuation of this reality
in respect to the spectator.

The last part of Deserter portrays a workers' demon-
stration in Hamburg and its dispersal by the police.
How is this done ? First, I shall follow the line of
the image.

The quiet streets of Hamburg; street traffic; the
traffic policeman in control. Suddenly appears a
symptom of disquiet. The policeman's eye catches
sight of a distant banner. Panic on the streets.
They empty. The demonstration approaches. Its
step is sure and confident. The mass of workers
grows, again and again new detachments pour to

92 FILM ACTING

join the demonstration from the side-streets. Sum-
moned by alarm signals, motor-cycles and motor-
cars filled with police come tearing up. They meet.
A clash. The demonstration stops. Mounted and
foot police hurl themselves at the workers, a battle
begins, centring around the scarlet banner carried
at the head of the demonstration. The banner falls,
but is raised again and again. The battle rages, its
fortunes swaying, but becoming more and more in-
tense— the police are gaining the upper hand. The
demonstration is defeated. The banner crashes to
the ground with the hero clinging to it and a police-
man clinging to the hero. Those arrested are
beaten up and led away. Then suddenly, at the
very last moment, when the defeat of the workers
has overwhelmed the spectator by its apparent in-
evitability, the banner, torn from the hands of the
enemy, soars once again above the crowd and, passed
from hand to hand, moves farther and farther away,
establishing the moral if not the physical victory
of the demonstration.

This is how the image goes. If it be plotted from
the viewpoint of its emotional effect, it can be repre-
sented by a complex curve with a rise at the begin-
ning, a relative drop in the middle, a vacillation, a
deep drop near the end, and a final rise at the
conclusion.

Now, there is a sound line in association with
this image. I decided to render this sound line
in music only. Usually music in sound films is
treated merely as a pure accompaniment, advancing

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RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 93

in inevitable and monotonous parallelism with the
image.

Had I intended to connect the music with the
image of the scene just described in this usual way,
this approximately is how it would have gone. A
waltz during the portrayal of the streets of Hamburg;
a rousing, cheery march tune in association with the
aggressive forward march of the demonstration; the
introduction of a danger and disquiet theme when
the police appear; the enemy theme strengthened
each time the banner falls and rousing fanfares each
time it rises during the struggle; music dropped to
the uttermost depths of despair when the demonstra-
tion is defeated, and lifted to triumphal victory
chords when the banner once more soars above the
crowd.

The composer — Shaporin — and I decided to
follow another road. The score was written,
played, and recorded for the whole of the sequence
as a single-purposed unity, a workers* march tune
with constantly running through it the note of stern
and confident victory, firmly and uninterruptedly
rising in strength from beginning to end.

What was the significance of this line ? We rend-
ered in this second line, that of the sound, the sub-
jective attitude to be adopted by the spectator
towards the content of the happenings in the image.

Marxists know that in every defeat of the workers
lies hidden a further step towards victory. The
historical inevitability of constantly recurring class
battles is bound up with the historic equal inevitabi-

94 FILM ACTING

lity of the growth of the strength of the proletariat
and the decline of the bourgeoisie. It was this
thought that led us to the line of firm growth
towards inevitable victory which we follow in the
music through all the complications and contradic-
tions of the events shown in the image.

The music guides the line of portrayal of the inner
content representation of this historical march to
certain victory, consciousness of which cannot, for
us, be separated from perception of a worker march-
ing into battle. What results on the screen ? As we
pass along the quiet streets of Hamburg, we hear in
the music, softly yet at the same time firmly, the
sounds of the tune of the marching workers. The
spectator derives rather an odd feeling from the in-
congruity between this music and the sight of the
gleaming motor-cars as they glide past the windows
of luxury shops. By the time the banner of the
demonstration appears, the music has grown more
and more definite, its significance is clear to the
spectator, and it drags him into step with the
workers' mass now firmly marching along the wide,
suddenly emptied streets.

The police hurl themselves at the demonstrators,
the battle begins, but the brave music informed with
the revolutionary spirit that moves the workers and
links them to the spectator continues to grow. The
banner falls, but the music rises to crescendo. The
position of the workers becomes more and more
desperate, but the music grows. The demonstration
is beaten, the hero perishes, but the music grows.

RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 95

The defeat of the workers and the victory of the
police overwhelm everything, but the music grows.
And suddenly, at the very last moment, the banner
that blazes up above the crowd synchronises in the
finale with a maximum strength of emotional inten-
sity in a musical phrase crowning in one topmost
flight of sound the whole sequence and the whole
picture.

When this sequence has been shown, especially
when separate from the rest of the film, I have had
the opportunity to observe cases of great emotional
upheaval, particularly among persons whose lives
have been devoted to the tasks of the working-class
struggle. It has been clear to me that the emotion
of such spectators cannot be attributed to the com-
ponent elements separately, such as skilful editing of
the image or the high quality of Shaporin's musical
score. The crux of the matter is, of course, that the
emotion derives from far deeper elements integrated
as a result of the combination of the two lines — the
objective representation of reality in the image and
the revelation of the profound inner content of
reality in the sound.

Though the example we have dealt with here does
not relate directly to the actor's work, it yet is im-
portant for him, for he is one of those who must
understand particularly clearly the significance of
treatment of sound and image, not in their primitive
naturalistic association, but in a more profound — I
should term it realistic — association enabling the
creative worker in the cinema to portray any given

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96 FILM ACTING

event, not merely simply in direct representation,
but in its deepest degree of generalisation. Only
then when, for each given event, we have found the
independent rhythmic lines of sound and image
appropriate to it, and thereby endowed its expres-
sion with the dual nature that opens the path to its
dialectical understanding, shall we obtain the
realistic and exceptionally forceful impression that
the so numerous technical means of the cinema
make possible.

We must not in our work for one moment allow
anything to stand in the way of fullest realisation of
this possibility. This is why we must seriously
tackle the question of broadening the understanding
and share of the actor.

Though it might pass that in silent film the actor
was completely separated from editing, both during
shooting and during the subsequent cutting-bench
work, yet in sound film such a practice becomes a
serious source of weakness.

In sound film the actor's possibilities in his means
of organising the form of his work to be presented to
the spectator are extremely widened, and at the
same time there has come greater need for precision
and point. He is able to control without mistake the
emotions and interest of the spectator, if, of course,
he understand properly the art of editing. The
fact that realisation of those possibilities involves
editing of diverse separate angles means that the
proper understanding of them will bring him to an
appreciation of the reason and necessity for splitting

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RHYTHM OF SOUND AND IMAGE 97

his acting during shooting. New possibilities always
create new complications.

Full realisation will make actors and theoreticians
of film acting at last understand that this problem,
like any other, cannot be regarded only from one
side. To be influenced solely by the desire to make
the best and easiest opportunities for the actor to
remain longest in his part will mean that we shall
bring into our work the theatricalisation of cinema
in its worst form. Long pieces, the shooting of films
in shots of long duration in which two or more
actors remain on the screen throughout, playing the
scene through as though on a stage and forcing the
spectator himself to pick out and choose what he has
to look at or listen to at any given moment, just as
though he were a member of a theatre audience — all
this leads to development of cinema along a false
and erroneous path, for in following it we follow a
line of least resistance and renounce use of all the
good which the cinema gives us and which alone
the cinema can give.

The actor will only appreciate the technique of his
work correctly when he understands it as a weapon
for his creative struggle. Struggle for what ? I
reply : for the realistic unity of the acted image. The
discontinuity of acting in the cinema which enables
as a result an edited image that can deeply affect the
spectator must not be destroyed by mechanically
long scenes, but, by means of the actor's technique,
by finding method for his work, we must enable him
to destroy discontinuity's possible bad influence on

98 FILM ACTING

the unity of the acted image. Discontinuity of floor
work must be counteracted by unity of rehearsal
work.

The unity the actor discovers within himself during
the rehearsal period must serve to avert mechanical
isolation of the separate pieces he has to deal with
in actual shooting.

CHAPTER IX
INTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE

On the stage there are three main matters for the
actor's technique to deal with: voice, gesture, and
make-up. Each of these matters is determined, as
we have already seen, by considerations of what is
meant by c stage technique ' ; that is, as we have
already defined, the means used by the actor to
overcome the harsh limits imposed on him by the
mechanical basis of the stage, and to achieve realistic
unity in his image.

When the actor works on his voice production and
his intonation, he is guided not by the dictates of
his role, but by the distance separating stage from
audience. Actors on the stage whisper loudly,
thereby contradicting the very meaning of the act of
whispering. What matter that the dramatic situa-
tion demands that a given actor's whisper be not
heard by his colleague standing near ? Not a scrap.
The whisper must at all costs be heard by the
spectator sitting in the back row of the balcony.

When the actor works on the plastics and expres-
siveness of his gestures, he strives to make them wide
and generalised, eliminating minuteness not because
the character whose image he is representing would
have made such wide gestures, but because they must
be perceived by the most remote spectator.

99

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Still again, the actor puts on vivid rouge and draws
a line of make-up for the purpose of making the
shape and movements of his face clearly visible from
that maximum distance which is mechanically con-
ditioned by the dimensions of the theatre. Thus
gestures, voice, make-up all constitute technique.
It is implicit in this technique, we should under-
stand, that the actor, in increasing the volume of his
voice, yet strives not to let his lines degenerate into
false declamation; in broadening the sweep of his
gestures, yet strives to retain their realistic shape; in
working out his make-up, remains yet oriented upon
the realistic features of the human face.

The sum total of the stage actor's work on his
voice, gesture, and make-up is covered by the
formula: theatricalisation of the external shape of
the acted image. This process cannot, of course, be
considered as actor's technique by itself. It forms
also a particular element in the general craft of the
stage. But, speaking generally, in any art the
technique of giving external shape to its elements
cannot be treated as something separate, indepen-
dent, and isolated from the creative process as a
whole.

In emphasising it as c technique,' I only desire to
emphasise its direct dependence on the specific con-
ditions of theatrical performance, distinct from the
conditions of cinema.

The c theatricalisation ' of the actor, his technique
in response to theatrical conditions, cannot be treated
separately as an art in itself. It is conditioned by

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INTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE 101

the actor's striving to make his creation as vivid and
effective as possible, and, in presentations of realistic
style, it links up with the general struggle of the artist
to preserve in the image the maximum complexity
and vividness of the real-life event being reproduced
in stage conditions.

The term ' theatricalisation ' of the actor's image
should be paralleled in the cinema by a term
' cinematicisation.' I regard this term as worth
inventing, because it corresponds to a definite
content in our film work.

While c theatricalisation ' involves a strengthening
of the vividness and effectfulness of his voice delivery,
gesture, grimace on the part of the actor himself, by
deliberate effort transforming his normal non-stage
delivery, gesture, grimace, the cinema achieves the
same result of strengthening vividness and effective-
ness by the use of a camera moved from place to
place, change of angle, perspective, lighting, nearer
or farther microphone, which means, in other words,
that ' cinematicisation ' is mainly bound up with
editing and the knowledge of its methods. Every
expressive movement of man is always conditioned
by the dialectical conflict of two elements : the inner
urge to widen the movement as much as possible,
and the volitional brake restraining the movement,
the two by their interaction thereby resulting in an
expressive form for the movement.

There exists a definite norm determining the shape
of human movements in the ordinary conditions of
real life. On the stage this movement shape is

102 FILM ACTING

altered by means of slackening somewhat the re-
straining tendency of the will. By this means, by
unbraking, weakening the restraint of the will, the
stage actor, preserving the inner meaning of the
gesture, preserving its inner urge, yet increases its
sweep and thus makes it clearly and distinctly
visible to the spectator in the theatre.

The cinema does not require this unbraking from
the actor. The least movement, inwardly stimulated
and restrained to the utmost degree, can yet be seen
and heard by the spectator through the agency of
closely approximated camera and microphone.

We are familiar, even in the theatre, with
efforts to approach realism in acting, the principal
being those that characterised Stanislavski and his
school.

These efforts were realised in their most marked
form in the early works of the First Studio of the
Moscow Art Theatre, where the theatre was no
bigger than a fair-sized room and the actor thus
maximally approached to the spectator. But this
method in the theatre immediately and inevitably
results in a degree of intimacy that contradicts the
basic requirement of every art — to embrace and
excite the maximum number of spectators.

The policy of changing the theatre into an inti-
mate ' emoting circle ' inevitably resulted in a reac-
tion and a demand for theatricalisation of the acting
and the whole performance as such, a reaction
which, in fact, was led by Stanislavski's closest
pupils, among them Vakhtangov.

INTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE 103

As we have already seen, the close-up in the
cinema removes the contradiction between the
desire for realism in the actor's acting and the re-
quirement of a maximum audience.

What are the changes resulting from this in the
tasks that confront the film actor? First of all,
resulting from the possibility of approximation of
camera and microphone to the actor, disappears the
need artificially to raise the volume of the voice and
increase the scale of the movements of the body and
face. In practice disappears from the actor's work
the element of special study of voice production and
strength of tone, which, in the film actor, need only
be strong enough to cover the distance separating
him from his colleague; in other words, as strong as
would be requisite in the conditions of actuality.

(We recall that on the stage the actor must endow
his voice with a strength determined not by the
distance separating him from his colleague, but by
that separating him from the spectator seated in the
gallery.)

The elementary crudity of theatrical make-up
becomes, also, entirely purposeless. In the cinema
the quality of make-up, where this be necessary at
all, is estimated by its efficaciousness in preserving
all the finest complexities of expression of the given
human face. An artificial expression — a cheek
pasted on, a line drawn to represent a non-existent
furrow — are simply idiotic in the cinema, inasmuch
as, deprived of their theatrical purpose of helping
the actor to establish an expression at a distance,

104 FILM ACTING

they simply become a hindrance damaging that
expression, particularly destructive in close-up.

If a film actor were made up in a theatrical way,
one would have to put the camera in shooting far
enough back not to see the details of the made-up
face, so as not to show them to the spectator.

Stylised make-up automatically forces the cinema
to renounce its own methods of work and change to
a simple recording of a theatrical performance from
the distance and angle of the audience seated in the
theatre. Everything ' theatricalised ' is wasted or
even harmful in the cinema.

The actor's work, at that moment of it which
takes place in front of the camera, can be as near real
life as is imaginably possible. The film actor play-
ing in an exterior, in a real garden, by the side of a
real tree or a real river, must not feel himself alien
and apart from the reality around him. The
formalisation of his work is expressed in that formali-
sation demanded by cinematic acting. Creative
work in these conditions demands no less effort, no
less technique, than the ' theatricalised ' acting of
the stage actor, but of an entirely different kind.

In his book My Life in Art, Stanislavski relates how,
on an occasion during one of their provincial tours,
a group of actors taking a walk in a park happened
by chance on a spot that reminded them of the stage
setting of the second act of Turgeniev's play A Month
in the Country.

The actors decided to try playing impromptu in
the natural background.

INTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE 105

Stanislavski thus tells of the attempt: " Came my
entry; Olga Knipper and I, as required by the play,
walked along the long tree-bordered avenue speaking
our lines. Then we sat down on a seat exactly as in
our stage business, started talking — and stopped
because we could not continue. My acting seemed
false to me against the background of real nature.
And people say our theatre has brought simplicity to
the point of absolute naturalism ! How stilted and
formalised seemed everything we were accustomed
to do upon the stage."

I believe that the main element in the acting of the
film actor has to be precisely the opposite of this, has
to be, in fact, precisely the ability to walk with a
colleague, without the slightest feeling of falsehood
or awkwardness, along a real garden path and
continue the conversation thus begun sitting on a
real bench under a real tree.

Shooting in exteriors has always characterised the
style of really cinematic productions, and, in my
view, it will continue to do so in the future.

It is interesting to note that the theatricalised
style of the film The Tempest transforms the few
exterior shots used in it to the appearance of mere
painted backcloths.

Stanislavski got his feeling of falsehood probably
because the feeling of the natural background sur-
rounding him forced him back upon feeling in all its
fullness the living reality of his colleague, the impulse
to speak and move in such a way as he would if con-
nected with her alone, to raise his voice no higher

io6 FILM ACTING

than necessary from the point of view of a person
standing close to him, to sit down on the bench in
such a way as to be turned comfortably towards the
person he was talking to without consideration of an
audience looking at him from a definite viewpoint
and demanding not merely the fact of a given
movement but its emphasised portrayal.

Despite the fact that Stanislavski had striven with
all his might towards the creation of actuality in the
theatre, by means of transplanting naturalism on to
the stage, training himself as an actor precisely into
the scheme of a complete separation of himself from
the audience and inclusion of himself into a separate
life, with his colleague, on the stage, subduing the
feeling of special c portrayal ' of his behaviour — yet
at his first contact with the surroundings of real life
he felt the inevitability of the influence of stage
conditions on the form of the actor's creative
work.

When we speak of the c unnecessary staginess ■ of
a film actor's performance, we so term it not because
staginess necessarily involves anything of itself wrong
or unpleasant. We simply register an unpleasant
sensation of incongruity, and therefore falseness, as
though at the sight of a man striving to negotiate a
non-existent obstacle.

An elocutionary distinctness in an uttered word,
theatrical loudness in a voice, even a slightly empha-
sised or generalised gesture, conflicting on the screen
with the nearness of the huge close-up that is the
nearest approach of spectator to actor, inevitably

INTONATION, MAKE-UP, GESTURE 107

creates a sensation of unnecessary and foolish
falseness.

But the same artificiality, the same gesture, in
theatrical conditions, and therefore realistically
directed towards the overcoming of obstacles really
existing, becomes a high form of art deeply moving
to the audience.

In a theatrical school, work on voice production
and intonation forms the basis of the lessons on acting
technique. In sound-film training, efforts are now
made in the same direction, but unfortunately they
are too often based on a mere mechanical transplan-
tation into the cinema of stage practices.

I believe that the Americans, who have devoted all
their attention to the perfection of recording appa-
ratus, and the invention of apparatus that can correct
speech defects recorded on the film by modification
in cutting or re-recording of the film itself, are on a
much more promising path.

The whole idea of elocution and voice production
in sound film reminds one of the hoary and idiotic
concept of c photogenic faces,5 and how film techni-
cians used to declare in the old days that an actor
could possess special facial and bodily qualities
capable of creating a perfect and expressive screen
image. Nowadays, at all events, we know that
cameras and lighting have shown that any human
being can give a beautiful image; all we have to do
is to find out how to photograph him.

CHAPTER X
REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE

From all we have said so far, it might be concluded
that the technique of the film actor must be oriented
around two basic elements: first, the mastering of,
and subordination by him of his acting to, the crea-
tive problems of the art of editing ; second, the
absorption of the acted image, organically and
wholly.

But we come now to the question — what part is
played in the film actor's work by what in ordinary
parlance is called sincerity, spontaneity, natural-
ness ? We know that in the cinema, in contrast to
the theatre, there are frequently instances of actors
who act their own selves. There are cases of sup-
porting or minor roles played by persons who have
never studied acting in any conceivable way, yet
who not only create strong and impressive images,
but also fall in perfectly with the general style
of the film, although professional actors also take
part in it.

This would be impossible on the stage. A real
live dog in The Eccentric,1 the thundering of the
hooves of real steeds on the wooden boards in
Hamlet, either is revolting and entirely out of key with
the whole performance. Yet one could hardly name

1 Play by A. Afinogenov. — Tr.
108

XX

Unnamed player as a jail officer,
" Mother/' Pudovkin.

REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE 109

a film in which, alongside real actors, one does not
see animals and children, who in no wise damage
its sense of stylistic unity.

Plenty might be said against the contention that a
casual man from the street, a * non-actor,5 could act
a big and complicated role in a film. But it is im-
possible, without theoretical trickery, to argue that
such a casual 6 non-actor ' in a small scene or simple
' bit,' even placed next to a good film actor, would
necessarily create in a film the same feeling of dis-
turbance and out-of-placeness for the spectator that
he feels at the sight of non-theatrical behaviour on
the stage, such as in the already cited cases of dogs
and horses, or, for example, the children who are
sometimes introduced into a stage show.

Stanislavski himself, who, from the very beginning
of his dramatic career, strove to attain naturalness in
acting, was forced to abandon the idea of introducing
into a theatrical performance an old peasant woman,
in spite of the fact that she seemed to him to be the
embodiment of truth and expressiveness.

It is, of course, not suggested that a film actor
should limit himself to the possibility of once or twice
playing his own self. Even if he play his own self,
he must none the less modify his behaviour to some
degree, in subordinating it to the task set out by the
film as a whole ; the role, even if himself, must be
given some basic ideological directional characteristic.
In no case, of course, will or can the image appearing
on the film be a simple copy of the given person who
acts, with the whole sum of his individual character-

no FILM ACTING

istics. In the end even a casual * non-actor *
(wrongly called t type 9 x) in some measure follows
the editing instructions of the director, in other
words, does some acting.

The film actor, in the course of a protracted career
involving work in several films, is bound to work on
the creation of various images some of which at least
are not identical with his own individual character-
istics. Thus, inevitably, is bound to arise the ques-
tion of working over himself, embodiment in an
image outside himself, howsoever it may be dealt
with.

The actor in his creative process first learns
reality; then, together with the spectator and by
means of the specific peculiarities of his art, he ex-
presses externally the results of his knowledge in the
form of a newly organised artificial behaviour com-
posed by himself. In this work he invariably strives
to preserve in live undestroyed shape his personal
existence, he strives to continue to feel himself in
front of the camera a whole, living person and not a
mechanised likeness of one, and if, as we have
already seen we do, we deny the mechanical con-
ception of the construction of the actor's work, then
already we acknowledge the necessity in this process
for c incarnating oneself into ' the image.

I shall not here analyse the process of ' living into/
or appropriating to one's person, the image. A

1 Pudovkin uses the word * type,' not for the non-acting material,
to whom it is sometimes applied in the West, but for a stylised figure,
who always plays a given role and none other — villain, hero,
policeman, mother-in-law, etc. — Tr.

REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE in

whole series of methods to this end, assembled even
into a complex methodology, has been worked out
by stage craftsmen. We have and will again later
discuss its importance.

Let us now note only and essentially that this pro-
cess of appropriation of the image, the transmutation
by the actor of his personal behaviour into the
behaviour of the role-man, is indispensable for the
transmission to the spectator of an organically whole,
realistically impressive live image. Having ac-
cepted this principle, we then note that, in the
theatre, the person of the actor inevitably comes into
conflict with the element of theatricalisation in the
external forms of the image he appropriates. In the
cinema these elements of theatricalisation are made
unnecessary by the presence of the non-stationary
camera and microphone that make possible an
edited shooting of the actor. The actor in the film,
being thus freed from the element of theatricalisa-
tion, is left with, as sole preoccupation, maximum
approach of himself to realisticness.

By what process do we gather knowledge of a
phenomenon as more and more real ? By the pro-
cess of approaching it, studying it, in all its depth, in
all its richness, in all the complexity of its linkage to
other phenomena.

In art we term an image realistic if it be a repre-
sentation of objective reality imaged with maximum
exactitude, maximum clarity, maximum profundity,
and maximum embrace of its complexity.

The frequent use of the word * maximum * in this

ii2 FILM ACTING

description suggests to us that naturalism is the
highest form of the realistic tendency in art.

But again and again it is necessary to repeat that
naturalism, realism, and idealism in art are not
separate and independent forms, capable of existence
unconnected with one another.

Naturalism and idealism are both hypertrophied
forms, divorced in their development from the
proper course of apprehension of reality, which
always returns from abstract generalisation to
living actuality, in order, having generalised
living actuality once again, thereby to advance
forward.

Naturalism, idealism, and realism in art stand
in the same relation to one another as do
mechanism, idealism, and dialectical materialism
in philosophy.

Those of the naturalist school, in copying a pheno-
menon of actuality and not generalising it, create a
mere cold mechanism, without the inner links that
exist in actuality within the phenomenon, and
without the outer links that bind it to other pheno-
mena as a part to the whole.

The realism of a representation increases as
its approach to the complexity of an actual
object and as its deepening by detail, but at the
same time it must portray the object as part of a
whole.

Realistic work, then, only escapes from naturalism
when in its representation of a phenomenon are
present both the general external linkage and the

REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE 113

inner generalising elements that (together with the
outward appearance) make the given phenomenon
in actuality a part connected to a whole.

Applying this principle to the work of the actor,
it is clear that the realistic tendency in art will urge
him towards the necessity for assembling, at some
stage of his work, the separate discontinuous pieces
of his acting in front of the camera into a whole
inseparably linked with the whole of the show and,
in general, with the place of the show in our con-
stantly developing social life.

The old paradox of Diderot, which pointed out
the possibility of the actor during a show being able
to make the spectator cry by the excellent playing of
his role and, simultaneously, his colleague laugh as
he stands in the wings, by a comic grimace, and
which thus apparently established the possibility of
a mechanical split in the actor's behaviour into
behaviour of a living person and behaviour in the
play — none the less in no way contradicts the neces-
sity, at some stage or other of the actor's working on
his role, for a whole and organic unity of these two
behaviours.

In this sense the teaching of Stanislavski is in its
premises profoundly true and honest. Let it be that
the actor on the stage does not, during the perform-
ance, live the life of the character he acts. But if the
audience gets, in the impression it receives, a feeling
of living realistic unity in the image, then this unity
must come from somewhere.

This unity must emerge somewhen during the

U4 FILM ACTING

creative process of the actor's work on the character.
Coquelin and Karatuigin,1 who both used tp * put
something over ' in their acting, somewhere and
sometime in their work must have created the con-
tent they portrayed.

The example of the cinema makes this contention
even more clear. Actually, the grey-white shadows
that flicker across the screen do not feel anything.
They are there, technically fulfilling the part once
and for all allotted to them, a series of fragmentary,
separate movements — yet none the less the spectator
receives the impression of a unified image. Why ?
Because as the basis of the selection of these separate
movements has been made the organic unity of the
real phenomenon recorded on the film.

It is interesting that it is characteristic of the
cinema that it can allow the actor to stop his work
before the form found for embodying his role has yet
become a habit learned by rote and mechanically
repeated.

We know that there exists in the theatre the peril
of * getting stale,3 as it is called.

Stanislavski, giving in his memoirs a comparative
valuation of his acting in the role of Dr. Stockman in
its earlier and later phases, writes as follows: " Step
by step I look back through the past and realise
more and more clearly that the inner content that
I put into my role at the time of first creating it and
the outer form into which the role has degenerated
in course of time are as far apart from each other as

1 A Russian Garrick.

REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE 115

heaven and earth. At first everything came from
a beautiful and moving inner truth, and now
all that is left of it is empty husks, rubbish, and
dust left over in body and soul from various casual
causes that have nothing in common with real and
true art."

I incline to think that this weather-beating of
Stanislavski's inner truth was not solely due to the
frequency with which he repeated his role. Surely
it was due to the fact that Stanislavski himself
underwent changes, and the inner organic elements,
which at first linked him to the image of Stockman
he had found, later no longer existed.

I cite this example because its sharpness underlines
the contrast provoked by the film actor's work, the
feature of which is that its living real link with the
acted image ceases much earlier than does that of
the stage actor, and, in the main, ceases at that
conscious and deliberate moment of choice which
the artist in any given art except the stage art uses
to place a limit to his polishing of his creation.

The film actor must be truthful, sincere, and, in
his striving for realism of the image, natural. This
naturalness is not destroyed in him by the demands
of theatricalisation. But, on the other hand, to find
the right content for the acting image does inevitably
require a great deal of important preliminary work
on the inner absorption of it.

Here we see converging the fundamental claims
of the Stanislavski school and the basic desiderata
we set out for the film actor.

n6 FILM ACTING

In my view, many of the methods adopted by the
Moscow Art Theatre school are closest to what is
wanted and most useful to bear in mind when setting
up a school of film acting. Of course, one must be
able to recognise and separate out from all the basic
rules promulgated and introduced by Stanislavski
those elements of theatricalisation which are suitable
only for a theatre school.

The right course, I fancy, is to imitate the Moscow
Art Theatre school, not in the form in which it
actually exists to-day, but in the form in which it
would exist based upon Stanislavski's ideas of
verisimilitude of acting which, in the last resort, he
could never realise because, so long as he worked in
the theatre, he could never rid himself of its con-
ventions.

Extremely interesting are those passages in
Stanislavski's memoirs where he speaks of the neces-
sity for c gestureless ' moments of immobility on the
part of the actor, to concentrate on his feelings all
the attention of the spectator.

Stanislavski felt that an actor striving towards
truth should be able to avoid the element of portray-
ing his feelings to the audience, and should be able
to transmit to it the whole fullness of the content
of the acted image in some moment of half-mystic
communion. Of course, he came up against a
brick wall in his endeavours to find a solution to
this problem in the theatre.

It is amazing that solution of this very problem is
not only not impracticable in the cinema, but

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REALISM OF THE ACTED IMAGE 117

extreme paucity of gesture, often literal immobility,
is absolutely indispensable in it. For example, in
the close-up, in which gesture is completely dis-
pensed with, inasmuch as the body of the actor is
simply not seen.

CHAPTER XI
WORK WITH NON-ACTORS

In speaking of realistic work by film actors, it is
necessary to point out the tremendous importance
of the experiments carried out in the cinema in work
with so-called ' non-actors * (I deliberately refrain
from using the misleading term ' type '). I am far
from the intention of providing excuse for any theory
affirming that the cinema does not need specially
trained actors. The formulation of such a theory
has in the past been carefully ascribed to me, regard-
less of the obvious fact that all my practical experi-
ence in the cinema, in literally every film, has been
connected not only with specially trained film actors,
but also with former stage actors.1

I shall not delve into these ' theoretical exaggera-
tions,' which I have already referred to elsewhere,
but simply recall the facts, which are, that, in indi-
vidual cases of work with non-actors, we have dis-
covered in practice that, and sought in theory the
reason why, elements of the real behaviour of a
person not trained in any school are not out of
place in a film and, indeed, at times can serve

1 Pudovkin has, it is true, never specifically advocated the exclu-
sive use of non-actors. But how far his enthusiasm for each problem-
of-the-hour has laid him open to the ascription he complains of may
be judged by the reader of his lecture to the Film Society, included
in Film Technique (Newnes). — Tr.

118

WORK WITH NON-ACTORS 119

as an example to be followed by experienced
actors.

It seems to me that these experiences point first
and foremost to the fact that the film actor, both in
the whole and in every fragment of his work, should
always orient his behaviour on the real concrete
feeling of the purpose he follows in each separate
piece. It should be recalled here that, in the
cinema, this purpose nearly always has real, and in
all the fullness of their reality sensible, forms. The
whole atmosphere of exterior work, so characteristic
for films, shows this.

In what manner have I used casual persons, non-
actors, in my own films ? My method has been to
create in the given pieces those real-life conditions
the reaction to which of the non-actor was bound to
be precisely that element I needed for the film.

Let us take as example the Young Communist and
his piece of acting at the meeting in the last reel of
Deserter. The boy photographed in this role was a
naturally self-conscious subject, and, of course, the
atmosphere of shooting and his anticipation of the
requirements the director was about to make from
him combined to render him excited, self-conscious,
and tie him generally into knots.

I purposely strengthened and increased the atmo-
sphere that was making him self-conscious because
it gave me the necessary colouring. When I made
him stand up in response to applause, and then began
to praise his acting unstintedly and flatteringly, the
youngster, much as he tried, was unable to hold

120 FILM ACTING

back a tremendous smile of complete satisfaction,
which gave me as result a gorgeous piece. I regard
this piece as one of the most successful in the whole
scheme, if such a term is legitimate in this case, of
the film's acting.

In this case all the real conditions of shooting did
in actual fact happen to coincide with the conditions
that later invested the scene on the screen. They
fitted both the confusion of the Young Communist
on being unexpectedly elected to the presidium of a
huge meeting, and his uncontrollable pleasure when
the huge meeting greeted the announcement of his
name with unanimous applause.

Certainly it was not the acting of an actor, for the
element of conscious creation was not present in the
lad who portrayed the Young Communist. But this
experience can be turned inside out and applied on
its practical side to help any actor wanting to find, in
concert with the director, a realistic prop to bolster
up his mood.

In the theatre, of course, as we have already seen,
a real-life prop of this kind has either to be imagined
or replaced by the magic ' just suppose ' invented
by Stanislavski.

About this * just suppose ' Stanislavski writes as
follows: " The actor says to himself: all this scenery,
props, make-up, public performance, etc., is a com-
plete lie. I know it and I don't care. These things
have no significance for me . . . but . . . just suppose
all this that surrounds me on the stage were true,
then this is how I should react to this or that event."

WORK WITH NON-ACTORS 121

From this magic cjust suppose,5 according to
Stanislavski, derives the true creative existence of
the actor. Maybe this is true, for the theatre, since
the theatricalisation of the actor's behaviour is an
indispensable aspect of his art. In the cinema,
however, even if this c just suppose ' exist, it does so
in an entirely different form, probably connected,
as is nearly every element of generalisation, with the
editing treatment of the role.

I recall another characteristic example of work
with a non-actor occurring during the shooting of
The Story of a Simple Case.

There was a scene as follows: a father and his
small son, a Pioneer, who have not seen each other
for a long time, meet. It is early morning. The
boy is just out of bed. He is stretching and flexing
his muscles after sleep. At his father's question,
" How's life, Johnny ? " he turns towards him, and
instead of an answer gives him a sweet, rather shy,
smile.

The task set was complicated and, besides, the
object to be shot had to be a boy about ten years of
age, because in the cinema not even the most old-
fashioned and stage-minded director would dare to
use a grown-up actor, or a girl made up to represent
a boy, as is possible and has often been done on the
stage.

In working with a non-actor it is impossible to
count on rehearsals. Mechanically remembered
movements are nearly always useless in such cases.
To find the necessary form creatively and then,

122 FILM ACTING

having found it, get it repeated is, of course, in work
with anybody not specially trained also impossible.
Therefore it is necessary, even in a case of such
complex action, to be able, taking into account as
finely and sensitively as possible the character of the
person playing, to establish for him such conditions
as will produce the movements required by the
director in natural and inevitable reaction to a
given external stimulus.

I therefore planned as follows : I decided, first and
foremost, to make the boy experience a real pleasure
from the process of stretching, more even, feel a need
for it. To achieve this, I bade him bend forward,
grip his feet with his hands, and hold them in this
position until I gave him permission to straighten up.

" Then," I told him, " you'll feel a genuine
pleasure in stretching and straightening your
muscles, and that's just what I want."

I deliberately explained to him the content of the
whole problem, reckoning that he would be inter-
ested in the experiment. This interest I needed for
the success of point number two of my task.

The boy was really interested; I felt it. Now I
further reckoned thus: when I give him permission
to straighten out, and he stretches with genuine
pleasure, I shall interrupt his movement with a
question: " Well, Johnny, isn't it grand to stretch ? "

Talking during the shot was not allowed; the boy
knew he had to keep silent. I knew his nature well,
and I was convinced that he would answer me with
precisely the smile I needed, acquiescent, and a

WORK WITH NON-ACTORS 123

little confused and shy at the unusualness of the
situation.

I repeat: rehearsals would have been useless; I
was all out for the spontaneity of the reaction I had
foreseen might come.

The scene began. The boy stood bent down-
wards. I allowed him to straighten out, he stretched ;
I saw on his face a satisfaction both of physical
pleasure and from his feeling that the game I had
suggested to him was going without a hitch. I put
my question and received in reply the beautiful and
sincere smile I wanted.

Of course, it might have failed, but I was con-
vinced that it would not, and I was right.

Work with casual persons, of course, requires
especial fertility of invention on the part of the
director. Equally, of course, it cannot be general-
ised into a principle suitable for work with all actors.
Nor is it possible to schematise such examples of
work with ' non-actors ' into a sort of scholastic
system. But I do believe that, from the experience
of such work, one might derive much that would be
useful in practice for the process of absorption into
the image, and the search for externally expressive
methods of portrayal of inner states.

The creation of conditions that evoke a reaction
naturally can sometimes be of great assistance in the
search for forms for the acting even of professional
actors, especially in circumstances of shooting in
exterior.

In considering the question of the c non-actor/ the

124 FILM ACTING

following should also be borne in mind: while it is
idle to suggest the complete replacement of experi-
enced and specially trained film actors by casual
persons, it is equally impossible to attempt to pro-
duce a film with the whole colossal number of roles
taking part in it filled exclusively by professional
actors. To refuse in any circumstances to use
casual personnel without special training in acting
is to abandon film-making altogether. A simple
mathematical calculation will prove this: the num-
ber of big roles in an average play is fifteen to
twenty; in an average film there will probably be
more like sixty, eighty, even a hundred separate
scenes of different persons, each of whom has definite
and considerable importance. Tiny bit roles, occu-
pying as small a time on the screen as twenty
seconds to a minute, yet often solve highly important
and serious problems and correspondingly demand
a high level of expressiveness.

The mass, the crowd that remains on the stage of
a theatre as something solid, general, undivided,
splits in the film, as we know, into close-ups. The
content of a crowd as a whole is revealed through
the detail of its component human beings. In a
close-up, each of these components of the crowd
requires to be no less true and expressive than the
actor who plays the leading role.

While on the stage a petty incident may be of only
slight importance, turning out to be only a connect-
ing link or, perhaps, just background atmosphere, in
the cinema, with the continuous concentration of the

WORK WITH NON-ACTORS 125

attention of the spectator on each frame, these
transitional, merely connecting elements do not
exist.

In the film, every piece, even the smallest, must
have a hundred per cent/content if the film is to be
constructed clearly and rhythmically. The high
standard that must be applied to the smallest inci-
dent should be considered in conjunction with the
practical difficulties of concrete film production and
the impossibility of keeping hanging around an in-
definite number of small-part players. In Holly-
wood, of course, thousands of extras and small-part
players live permanently in the film city. But this
system could hardly be established with us.1 With
the correct development of cinema as an art maxi-
mally embracing and absorbing reality, with the
consequent increase of exterior scenes causing loca-
tion journeys of producing units to various parts of
our country, one can hardly reckon upon carting
about with one a huge crowd of actors for use only
in one-minute-long scenes.

We shall always have to face the necessity for the
director to know how to use for such scenes whatever
persons he can collect on a location possibly far
removed from his headquarters in the capital.

The position is further aggravated, I suggest, by
the impossibility of using broad make-up, which on

1 In the Soviet Union the general shortage of labour precludes
nlm-extra-ing as a profession. Film crowds are called, in the main,
from a roster of persons whose occupation is of such a nature as to
enable them to snatch a few hours from their jobs at odd intervals.
— Tr.

126 FILM ACTING

the stage can transform a young Khmelev * to an
old porter.

Of course, there could still remain open the course
of adapting the scenario to the stock company the
given studio has at its disposal. Kuleshov, who
writes his scenarios with a meticulous eye on the size
and composition of his producing collective, is in-
clined to favour this style of work. But this path, it
seems to me, is not one that opens for exploitation
the colossal possibilities of the cinema; on the con-
trary, it closes the way to real, profound develop-
ment.

This is a matter that raises questions of the funda-
mental style of work. There is no reason why one
should not take into account one or two leading
actors, the better to adjust the content of the
scenario, but it is out of the question to attempt it in
respect to a hundred incidents. Such an attempt
would even be objectless since experience has already
shown, as we have seen, that ways can be found of
fully exploiting untrained material in film acting.

The only barrier preventing such use would be
scholastic maintenance of i the cinema is for the
actor " as an abstract principle.

1 Also a Russian Garrick. — Tr.

CHAPTER XII
CASTING

I return once more to the film actor's work on his
role, and propose to pause at the very first stage —
that of the choice of it. The film actor, like any
artist in any art, bases himself on the profoundest
absorption of the image in its teleology and in its
ideology. In this process are inevitably present not
only objective but also subjective elements.

If his only interest in the image planned is the task
to be performed by the play or scenario as a whole,
and if in the execution of this task he, as an actor,
is not also interested in the image itself in the deepest
degree, then no work of art will result.

If the play as a whole and the role in the play
solve something that is alien to and divorced from
the inner world of the artist himself, then no work of
art will result. Only if play and role both speak in
some degree about something that the artist himself
desires to say with deepest sincerity and passion,
only then can one be sure that his work will result
in a real creative work of art.

I hold that from the very beginning, at the primary
first encounter of the actor with his role, there must
be present the element of deep inner interest on the
part of the actor.

But apart from this general inner interest from the

m 127

128 FILM ACTING

very start of the work, the actor must infallibly feel
and think out clearly the degree to which he himself
is suitable for the perfect execution of the future
work. It is no good the appeal of a role that in-
terests the actor being limited to its ideological con-
tent. There must be an element of sympathy for
characteristics in the role that will find an echo in
the individual character and cultural background of
the actor and can therefore become points of depar-
ture for the direction of his future work in appro-
priating the image.

From the first moment he encounters his role, the
actor must feel an emotional sympathy with it in
itself, apart from its links to the scenario as a whole.
This primal moment of presentiment of the fullness
and reality of the image may be personal to the actor,
or may be discovered by him with the help of the
director.

But in either case, this element of the actor
being deeply moved by the possibilities of his pro-
posed future work should determine the choice of
casting.

It will be advisable to dwell a little more fully on
this question of casting, because our present practice
is still the mechanical allotment of roles to actors,
sometimes without taking into consideration their
personal individual qualities, and always ignoring
their creative interestedness.

It is clear that an actor's work in a given role will
only give good results when it is preceded by an
element of choice in his acceptance of the role — the

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CASTING 129

outcome of an urge within him to play the particular
role.

The film actor is far less favourably situated in this
respect than the stage actor. The cinema knows
no, or, more strictly speaking, few, established acting
collectives, and the scenario, although as a rule
written for a specific director, usually ignores the
question of the cast, which is only later assembled
and fitted into the roles.

The opportunity for a film actor to choose a role
is non-existent, and limited in practice to the possi-
bility of saying yes or no to the offer of a given role.

I must say that the fault lies not only with the
present organisation of the film industry and the
lack of initiative obtaining among scenarists and
directors. A large share of responsibility, permit me
to say, for this sad state of affairs lies at the door of
the lack of film culture among the actors themselves.

Let us analyse carefully the meaning of the element
of being carried away emotionally by the role,
which alone should decide the actor in his choice
of it.

Before he begins his work on the image, the actor
must (else he is no artist) be able to size up all this
future work generally, as a whole. On the one
hand, he must see in it his own interest in and
emotion at the general task; on the other, and para-
mountly, he must sense in it clearly those possibilities
in the external treatment of the image that are
linked, first, with his estimate of the personal quali-
ties of the proposed character, second, with his

1 3o FILM ACTING

knowledge of the technical means he possesses to
express them.

A rapid sizing up of all the possibilities the future
role can give him is essential for the actor. It is this
necessary, first-line general planning associated with
every task and taking fully into account the problems
with which it will confront him which should decide
a man in taking on a job or refusing it. To this
preliminary sensing of the role, the actor must bring,
as I have said, not only a general ideological interest,
but a complete summary review and feeling over of
his own abilities and possibilities, his acting talents,
the technical methods he possesses, his character,
temperament, and background; in short, the sum
total of his psycho-physiological characteristics.

A stage actor, when approaching the task of
general feeling of the image, and weighing up the
pros and cons of accepting or rejecting it, makes use
of his knowledge of the specifics of stage work.

As we have seen, in his system of training, the film
actor should approach the Stanislavski school.
Therefore the basic elements of his primal liking for
a r6le should be founded principally on the inner
content of the image. But none the less, it would be
a gross error to divorce this content from the
external forms by means of which it will be trans-
mitted to the spectator from the screen.

Unfortunately full knowledge of these forms has
hitherto been the exclusive possession of the director,
and the actor has either possessed such knowledge
not at all or only in small, highly insufficient degree.

CASTING 131

The liking of a film actor for a given role has been
primitive, in most cases quite disorganised, and often
the mere desire of a comedian to play Hamlet. In
case of an organised liking, the actor sympathetic
towards a role is attracted by it because, even in the
primary sensing of it, he already appreciates that
every element in it that interests him not only does
excite and interest him, but also is perceptible to
him as one he can form and shape. The tasks may
be as difficult as can be, but they will be accomplish-
able— that is the main thing.

For a primal taking-to-the-role of this kind, it is
unquestionably necessary that the actor possess full
and all-sided knowledge of the technique of his art.
He must be fully armed with technical knowledge in
order to judge whether a liking for a role on his
part will lead to a real, and the necessary, result.

The stage actor who knows his stage, his pro-
ducer, and his colleagues, the technical bases of the
theatre, can bring this primal sizing up of his part
to the pitch of imagining himself as he will appear
on the stage in front of the audience.

The film actor, as a rule, does not imagine to him-
self the possibilities he has, or which can be put at his
disposal, for the creation of the final form of his
image on the screen, and without imagining this an
actor cannot properly work. Hitherto this imagina-
tion has been the exclusive prerogative of the direc-
tor. This is the man who hitherto has visualised in
advance the actor's edited image, that is, the image
that is to exist on the screen for the spectator, and it

132 FILM ACTING

has been his task to introduce this visualisation into
the subjective compass of the living actor.

Of course, the film actor is not responsible for the
fact that the general organisation of our film industry
prevents and hinders his opportunities of sufficiently
mastering the technical culture of film art. But, for
whatever reason, he has been placed in such a position
as to be unequipped to exercise full responsibility
in his choice of a role. He has been mechanically
separated from the sphere of editing, which has been
kept as a preserve for the director, whereas in truth
knowledge of it is the first and foremost condition of
full film-culture for the actor most of all.

In conclusion, therefore, we see that the question
of an actor's primal liking for a role comes back in
practice in the end to the fact that the actor must be
in possession of a much wider and deeper technical
knowledge of the cinema, so that his liking for a role
will be not just based on a primitive hunch, but an
element, obeying definite laws, in the full creative
process of work on the image.

CHAPTER XIII
THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE

To deal with the question of the necessity for active
participation by the actor in the choosing of his role,
it was at one time thought to find a solution by
organising a system of actors putting in ' claims ' for
their roles. These c claims ' were to be based on
complicated discussions about the schedules of
themes planned by each studio, which were supposed
to be the concrete expression of the creative hopes,
over the given period, not only of scenarists and
directors, but also of actors who were supposed to
choose and stake ' claims ' for definite images that
appealed to them. In my view such a system is
only likely to result in an unnecessary and foolish
mechanical competition of claims. Obviously no
reading of claims, reports, or memoranda could pos-
sibly replace for the director and scenarist an essen-
tial acquaintanceship with and feeling of the given
actor himself.

Memoranda and meetings are no use for a real
understanding and estimate of the actor by his
prospective director; what is required is profound
mutual study. To speak the plain truth, the
majority of directors and actors of to-day, despite
the fewness of their numbers, have hardly ever met
each other. The question of the producing collec-

133

134 FILM ACTING

live has, in fact, not even been taken as far as the
very first step of its possible development.

In recalling my own experience, I noted to what
degree of inner contact a director's intimacy with an
actor should reach in order to ensure the progress of
shooting in that atmosphere of mutual help and
trust that is so necessary for fullest advantages in
creative work.

Our producing collectives are not together long
enough to be able to organise themselves for the
proper carrying out of even one film.

At present we are so organised that a director has
no real contact with even the leading members of
the cast until just before the actual beginning of
shooting.

I must quote again my experience with Baranov-
skaya, when our contact only reached the real inner
stage about half-way through work on the film.
With the actor Livanov it was much worse — we only
reached a mutual creative understanding right at
the end.

Such a degree of lack of contact with and know-
ledge of an actor is, of course, impermissible and
unpardonable, and indicates the need for immediate
and most drastic reorganisation.

I cannot see the formation of permanent creative
collectives being a practical full solution to the prob-
lem. One must repeat again and yet again that the
colossal and unwieldy size of acting staff involved by
any such attempt, in view of the limited possibilities
the cinema affords the actor of radically changing

THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE 135

his appearance, would inevitably cramp the creative
sweep of the scenarist's imagination, in other words
strike a blow at the most vital and characteristic
essential of the film — its idea content.

On the other hand, of course, one should obviously
support, develop, and encourage to the uttermost
and in every possible way the organisation of perma-
nent collectives in such cases as do find it feasible
to transform the weight of their efforts into the weld-
ing of a creative unit out of their component
workers, if only for instructional purposes, to
raise the general cinematic culture of the actors
concerned.

But I think that, apart from the creation of perma-
nent collectives, we should also face up to the
problem of bringing about circumstances which
would enable an actor and director who have joined
forces only for one or two films to achieve a profound
inner mutual understanding and a linkage to one
another of maximum extent.

The one and only basis for the formation of a col-
lective with such an understanding is : first and fore-
most, the organic collaboration in the creative
process of all its component workers; next, agree-
ment in viewpoint, agreement in methods of work,
in general cinematographic culture.

Work by such a collective, to go further— the very
existence of such a collective in any real sense — is
conceivable only in circumstances where all the
workers of a producing unit collaborate in as close
contact as possible from their very inception as a

136 FILM ACTING

unit. Immediately and inevitably arises the ques-
tion of the participation of the actor in scenario
work. We have already noted that the common
experience is for an actor to be confronted with a
scenario already written, containing a role cut and
dried and ready for him, when he should be engaged
in investigating the role for elements that move him
and could condition the fullness and content of his
subsequent creative work.

There also occur examples of a scenarist writing
his script with a given actor in view. This, of course,
happens when the scenarist knows the identity of the
actor to be cast, as would be the case in the circum-
stance of existence of a permanent collective.

But yet a third method is possible, and in this the
actor, invited by director and scenarist, would be
introduced into the work during the actual process
of writing of the scenario, and therefore actually
exercise a certain influence on his role. The con-
tact resulting would be complex — scenarist, scenario,
role, actor, director. This method would and
should be adopted before the scenario is actually
plotted definitely into its edited shape of shooting
script. It is my regret that no practice any way
approaching this has ever been known in our film
history to date.

Though one might legitimately say that there have
been instances of contact between a director and his
actors or between a director and his scenarists, one
can with equal certainty state there has never been,
in the whole of our film history, an instance of close

THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE 137

contact and co-operation between actor, scenarist,
and director.

In my own experience, I have never had a collec-
tive, and I must confess that during my work I have
admitted actors to creative collaboration only
grudgingly and to a miserly extent. This has, of
course, principally been due to the general atmo-
sphere of production, which never leaves time for
mutual intercourse of a really deep creative nature
between the workers in a producing collective.

When the actual process of production of the film
has started, it is already late to begin to set up real
contact, and in some cases is quite impossible. One
can still rouse a greater or lesser interest and keen-
ness on the part of an actor in his work, but one can
never hope for a really welded linkage with him. It
is therefore not difficult to appreciate that it is quite
taken for granted that the actor should fall out
altogether when the most important stage of work
on the film begins — that of editing. He steps aside,
and returns only to see the film in completely fin-
ished state when he has no chance whatever to
modify anything the director has done.

Why is the period of production marked with such
excitement and nervous strain ? Chiefly because
one has always to work with an incomplete scenario
and insufficient preliminary preparation. Too often
nearly the whole of a director's energy during the
shooting of a film is spent on working over the shoot-
ing script, and he only has a chance to familiarise
his collective with the most vital and important

138 FILM ACTING

elements in their creative work a day, or even an
hour, before shooting.

This is a hopeless and essentially bad method of
introducing the actor into the creative work of the
collective. No collective can possibly be created
during the production stage of a film; the good and
only proper time for its creation is, of course, the
preparatory pre-shooting period.

It is only during this preparatory period that the
conditions suitable for mapping the general lines to
mutual understanding obtain. It is only during this
preparatory period that the general orientation of
the film can be felt, schools of thought agreed, a real
growth of utmost fullness take place.

We have already made clear the handicapped
status of the film actor in our industry. While the
director has the chance to say as clearly as he likes
what he wants done, to choose the scenarist most
suitable for the carrying out of what he plans, to
pick his own cast, the film actor has hitherto had no
possible means enabling him to express a desire for
working along given lines of his selection.

One school has suggested as way out the giving to
film actors of the opportunity to try themselves out
in duplicate during the preparatory period, thereby
giving them a chance to convince the director of
their comparative suitability and advantages for the
given roles. But to have a possibility of choice, one
must have enough alternatives to choose from. Do
our actors have this possibility ? Of course not,
because the actual process of writing the scenario,

THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE 139

the writing that establishes the final shape, fixing
sharp and pointed characteristics suitable to a given
particular actor, is done apart and away from all
the actors. The moment the scenarist and director
leave synopsis and treatment, which only generally
sketch the outlines of the future characters, and start
to develop and work out the actual scenario and
shooting script, they, in fact, take away from the
actor all chance of choosing his role.

If only the planned scenarios while still in their
primary form of synopsis and treatment could be
spread broadcast among the acting personnel, then
at last the actors, considering and weighing their
own possibilities, could express a choice of director
and scenario, and then, by further contact, have
the definite possibility of joint creative work. This
would be the first real step towards setting up a real
creative collective.

But the practical solution of this problem will, I
fear, encounter serious difficulties. The acting staff
of a given studio is usually in definite degree limited.
The directorial staff is usually also limited. When
one proposes a solution envisaging wide use of all
forces for establishing creative collectives, one should
probably begin by considering how to overcome
tendencies towards separation in the various separate
studios.

In my view a film-producing unit should be en-
titled to claim sovereign and separate status only if
it has some definite and individual creative ' face,5
that is, if its separately welded collectives together

140 FILM ACTING

comprise a collective of higher degree, also welded
to creative purpose. But we have no such producing
units. Acting and directorial staffs are distributed
casually, without any relation to their style of work
or so-called * school • of art. This being so, pending
some sort of regrouping on the basis of common
style or artistic tendency among proposed colla-
borators, I think we must envisage, as practical
possibility, exchange on a wide scale of their respec-
tive creative elements between the various units.

The wide broadcasting of synopses and basic
treatments of films planned for production must be
effected not within the limits of one unit, but among
several, so that mutual choice of director and actor
will have the chance to operate under conditions of
real fairness.

In direct relationship with all this is the question
of the so-called * range • of the actor, that is to say,
the limits of his type, which, in the cinema, are, in
fact, purely physical, connected with the external
expressiveness of his acting elements. The possibili-
ties of changing the physical appearance of the actor
are far more limited in the cinema than on the stage.

For purposes of realistic work in film, the possibi-
lities of artificial make-up entirely disappear; for
example, it is quite impossible to alter a three-
dimensional shape with a two-dimensional line. To
draw or paint the relief of a face, as on the stage, is
impossible in the cinema because the vacillating
contrasts of light on movement will invariably expose
the false immobility of a painted shadow and show it

THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE 141

up just for what it is—a dirty mark. The painting
of non-existent relief on a face in the cinema being
impossible, to be effective it must be constructed
tri-dimensionally, but even so, such an artificial and
stuck-on protuberance will cease to be lifelike if it
exceed a relatively tiny size, for it will fail to take
part in the live and subtle interplay of the muscular
system of the human face.

Make-up is possible on the stage only because the
relatively constant footlights and stage lighting yield
no shadow, and the spectator, seated relatively dis-
tantly, thus fails to remark and be disturbed by its
immobility.

Variety in an actor's roles in the cinema derives
mainly from inner design, from variation in conduct
in the novel conditions created afresh in each new
film. In the cinema one and the same actor, with
face and even character unaltered, can play many
films.

We know, for example, how Chaplin, always stay-
ing in the same make-up and always preserving the
same character, has created a tremendous generic
image that passes through the whole series of his
films.

It is in the light of these facts, I maintain, that we
should study the question of the limits to a given
individual's acting possibilities in the cinema.

At this stage, inescapably, the question of the so-
called c star-system ' comes out into the open. How
is a * star * made and made use of in the bourgeois
world ? If an actor has been accepted by the public

142 FILM ACTING

in some film owing to his appearance, owing to his
manner of acting, this latter being in most cases
almost a trick, then the producing unit does all in
its power to preserve, as carefully and rigidly as pos-
sible, all those properties in the actor that appealed
to the public, and to adjust to them, by any make-
shift, any material, so long only as that material is
slick and catchy. In fact, the ' star system ' means
no more than that the director presents the c star,5 in
his given discovered form, against some background
dictated by his employers. An example of the kind
is Adolph Menjou, who acted brilliantly under
Chaplin's direction. In a series of further, already
desperately stupid films, mechanically preserving
unchanged the appearance and general scheme of
his behaviour, he has gradually become a less and
less interesting empty doll.

I think that this method of repetition of appear-
ance of an actor the public has once liked is neither
acceptable to us, nor, indeed, is it in general accept-
able as a form of art.

The repetition of an actor's appearance on the
screen in a new film should not be effected simply for
the sake of showing him once more unaltered in the
shape the public liked, but in the course of making a
new step forward on the path of his advance. He
must somehow further develop the image on which
he has begun to work, and carry this image through
a new section of reality abstracted for the purpose.

Menjou, in contradistinction, has simply been
shown repeating himself time after time, which has

THE CREATIVE COLLECTIVE 143

meant fundamentally no less than the collapse of his
talent, because the film has just happened round
him, instead of himself entering into the film.

Chaplin manages to preserve ever the same image,
yet at the same time in each and every film of his he
interests, because he is ever passing through new
and still newer cross-sections of reality, thereby each
time creating a really organically whole work of art.

A film with a c repeat ' of an actor must represent
some process in his development, some process
obedient to laws, transforming the repeat into a step
on the road towards wider and wider revelation of
the image he has created.

CHAPTER XIV
PERSONAL EXPERIENCES

Now that I am drawing to a close, I should like to
say just a few words about my own experiences in
acting. It occurs to me that in these experiences are
reflected all the unclarity and confusion about inner
fundamentals, which are the reason why, to this
day, the film actor has to all intents and purposes no
agreed school of acting. My first roles were associ-
ated with the methods of Kuleshov. The sole and
only content of play-acting in that school is external
expression, or treatment of the image only by a
mechanical sequence of motions selected either by
the actor or, sometimes, by the director.

The edited image of the actor on the screen was
there constructed, exactly similarly, from a number
of mechanically joined pieces, connected only by a
temporal composition of schematised movements.
Even the elements of the close-up, which, one would
think, would require a greater degree of inner work
from the actor, were usually restricted to the learning
by heart of facial movements disintegrated into
analysed components. Such director's commands
as : jut out the chin, open the eyes wide, bend or
raise the head, were a frequent part of the routine
of the shooting process.

There used to be a certain amount of talk about
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the possibility and necessity for basing all these
movements on some inner something, though what
this ' something ' was no one quite knew or at any
time defined.

At times, I remember, this 4 something ' was
merely the satisfaction one experiences at the
smooth and easy execution of a scheme one has
memorised. At others one experienced an ecstasy
difficult to distinguish from the sensation of general
physical tension derived from consciousness of the
importance of some deed one is accomplishing.

This is how I worked both in The Adventure of Mr.
West and in The Ray of Death.

I must observe here that a tremendous feature of
our work was the fact that Kuleshov, who possesses
immense talent for teaching, did not neglect to steep
us thoroughly in both scenario and editing work
and gave me the chance, not only myself to act, but
also to direct little scenes with other actors.

The completeness of this embrace of the whole
process of creating a film on all its sides accustomed
me to feel myself not only as a being working before
the camera, but also in the continuity of the future
images that were to appear as the result of editing.

I consider that Kuleshov's school, despite all the
mechanism of his then approach to the actor, was
immensely helpful to every member of his collective,
and it is no accident that there emerged from it
such fine actors as Fogel and Komarov.

I made an effort in my work at that time to base
myself on inner mood, and to find some quality

146 FILM ACTING

within myself that would enable me to feel, at the
moment of shooting, a fully and wholly live being.
But I had no possibility really to develop this during
all the time I was with Kuleshov. Only when I
went to Mezhrabpom and started work on my own
did I get the chance to approach acting from a new
angle, though admittedly this was in the course of
my work as director. But every time I made a
film, I always tried also to take a small part in it
myself.

I regard as comparatively successful the little piece
I played in Mother, where I represented an officer, a
police rat, who came to search the dwelling of Paul.
I remember that for this role, by habit of my old
training, I based myself principally on the external
traits of its image. I began by cutting my hair en
brosse, grew a moustache, and put on a pair of
spectacles, which, it seemed to me, by their contrast
with the military uniform, which always lends a
certain air of bravado and masculinity to th^ wearer,
would especially emphasise the weak and degraded
character of a typical police-officer rat.

I remember that the only inner mood on which I
tried to base my acting was one of sour dreariness
and boredom, such as seemed to me should cause
the spectator to feel vividly the dourness of police
mechanism, which impersonally and remorselessly
mutilates every spark of living thought and feeling.

I remember that all the work on this tiny part was
most closely bound up with its editing development.
The somnolent, bored, and dreary figure of the police

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES 147

officer, mainly shown in long shot and medium shot,
was purposely changed to close-up and big head
when, in the course of the role, I began to show
glimpses of interest in the chase as I scented the
spoor.

My only big acting job was the role of Fedya in
The Living Corpse. Here I was not the director. The
task was big and complex. In every aspect of
the development of the role the question arose of the
teleology and directional aim of the image, of its
place in the film, and its relation to the significance
of the film as a whole. It must be admitted that
not one of these questions was adequately solved.

My work on this film, owing to various attendant
circumstances, took the form, on the whole, of a
holiday from directorial work. I gave myself up
entirely into the hands of the director, consciously
deciding that I should not, in any given piece of
film, make any attempt to transcend the limits of
my own personal appearance and personal character.

What this meant was that in consequence I sur-
rendered to the director the task of creating a united
image. I never thought of the edited image as a
whole. I had only an idea of the editing treatment
of the individual pieces. As general linking-up
element for formation of the whole, I provided my
own self; in simpler language, I played this man as
myself.

In each individual moment of the acting, by means
of various methods of strictly individual kind and
applicable only to myself, I brought myself into a

148 FILM ACTING

mood suited to enable me, in all personal sincerity
and the unity of my own character, to make the
various movements and go through the various
actions required of me by the scenario and director.

I recall a scene in which, revolver in hand, I stand
behind a stove, peering round its edge, displaying
to the spectator the half-crazed face of a man on
the verge of suicide.

I remember that, to act this piece, I hid from the
camera behind the stove and, pressing the revolver
against my heart, repeated without a break the
words of Kirillov in Dostoievski's The Demons: " At
me, at me, at me. . . ." When finally this had
brought me into an almost fainting condition, I
peered around the edge.

I recall another scene typical of the same principle.
In an empty hall, just before leaving my home and
abandoning my wife, I take leave of my sister. I
remember that it was quite easy for me to summon
up in myself a feeling of extreme care and tenderness
towards the girl who played the role of the sister.
She appealed to me in life as a person. To feel that,
on going away from her for ever, on leaving her
alone in this empty house, I should call forth from
myself sorrow and a desire to help her, a caress that
at the same time would be a parting gesture putting
her away from me, was simple and easy : it was not
alien to, but actually accorded easily with, my real-
life characteristics.

Speaking in general, my work in The Living Corpse
was carried out to an extent with considerable and

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES 149

profound inner feeling and was heavily charged
emotionally, but it never gave me the feeling that I
had it in me to play any other role, one based on an
image not fully reproducing my own and usual
character as manifested in life.

My experience in playing in The Living Corpse can,
of course, in no way serve as a proper example of
acting work.

The inner linkage, the inner organisation of the
character, was built up not by the path of transmuta-
tion of self, but by that of direct manifestation of self.
In each given piece, I remained in the fullest literal
sense of the word myself. Any element new and
alien from myself appeared solely as the result of
editing. In other words, the screen image of Fedya
appeared solely as the result of dictates laid down
by the scenario; it was never constructed creatively
by acting the character.

I incline to think that the basic and decisive factor
in this work was precisely my personal indifference
to the image as a whole, which made me approach
my work as a mere journey across the film, without
striving to subordinate my actual self to the teleology
of the image, which alone can give the actor not
just the satisfaction that comes from the accomplish-
ment of a technical task, but the sense of a solution
of the ideological tasks posed by the film as a whole,
living, growing, full of content, not only for the
spectator, but also for the actor as well.

I hold that, in the present state of our cinematic
theory and practice, it is still impossible to speak of

1 5o FILM ACTING

any definite system of work or system of training for
the actor. Such a system has first to be created,
and to begin with, as the point from which we must
depart, we must take the establishment of the indis-
pensable conditions that provide the possibility of
organising such systems.

At this stage all I can do is to limit myself to the
simple narration of the empirical experiments in
my own and other people's work.

CHAPTER XV
CONCLUSIONS

i . The new technical basis of cinema (non-station-
ary camera and microphone) renders not only un-
necessary but senseless for the actor all the technique
connected in the theatre with the wide distance
actually separating the actor from the stationary
audience. The following are therefore eliminated:
stage-specialised voice production, theatricalised
diction, theatricalised gestures, painted features.

2. In consequence of this the theatrical sense of
an actor's ' range ' becomes altered. The variety of
roles he can play in the cinema is dependent : either
on the variety of characters he can play while pre-
serving one and the same external appearance
(Stroheim), or, alternatively, on his development of
one and the same character throughout a variety of
circumstances (Chaplin).

3. Having lost the possibility of creating a ' type '
with the aid of theatrical methods: stylised make-up,
generalised gesture, emphasised voice expression,
and so forth, the film actor in exchange acquires
possibilities, inconceivable in the theatre, of closely
realistic treatment of the image, maximal approach
in his acting to the actual behaviour of a living man
in each given circumstance. A ' type ' is created in
the cinema largely at the expense of the general

151

i52 FILM ACTING

action, at the expense of the wealth of variety of
human behaviour in various situations. (Compare
the development of the ' type ' in the novel form and
in drama — the cinema here is nearer to literature
than to the theatre.)

4. From the culture of the stage actor is taken over
into the cinema everything connected with the pro-
cess of creating a united image, and its c absorption 9
by the actor, everything that precedes the search for
' stage ' and ' theatricalised ' forms for the acting.
(Of course, in practice no sharp division between
these two periods exists. A feeling of c stage ■ form
will always be present with the stage actor, yet it is
possible to some extent to draw a line.) For this
reason the Stanislavski school, which emphasises
(more truly, emphasised) most particularly the
initial process of deep c absorption ' by the actor of
the image, even at the expense of the * theatricalisa-
tion ' of its content, is nearest of all to the film actor.
The intimacy of acting of the Stanislavski school
actor, leading sometimes to an overburdening of
the performance with little-noticed details and
thus a loss by that acting of theatrical * panache,'
is inevitably and remarkably developed in the
cinema.

5. All the means theatrical culture has created to
help the actor wholly ' absorb ' an image scattered
in pieces throughout a play must be taken over into
cinema practice. In the first rank of importance is
rehearsal work, developed paramountly along the
line of creating for the actor every possible condition

CONCLUSIONS 153

for prolonged, unbroken existence in the image (the
rehearsal scenario).

6. The editing treatment of the actor's image
(composition on the screen of the separately shot
acting pieces) is in no sense a directorial trick, taking
the place of acting by the actor. It is a new, power-
ful, peculiarly cinematic means of transmitting this
acting. To master it is as important for the film
actor as it is important for the stage actor to master
* theatricalisation ■ technique (stage delivery of his
acting).

7. Hence it follows that the culture indispensable
for the film actor will only attain the necessary
heights when included in it is profound knowledge
of the art of editing and its various methods. This
desideratum has hitherto incorrectly been applied
only to the director.

8. The growth of a film actor cannot be separated
from practical work on his film, and accordingly he
must be closely linked with it, beginning with the
final polishing of the scenario in the course of re-
hearsals and not being discarded from it during the
period of cutting.

9. In work in sound films, the actor equipped with
this culture must strive to find examples of acting
and its editing that will develop forms of powerful
impressiveness, such as were found in its day by the
silent film. He must not yield to the reactionary
force that tempts both himself and the director —
adaptation to mechanical use of theatrical methods
alien to the film.